


Lines in the Sand

by goldheartedsky



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Adam Scott voice: “it’s about the stories.”, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Angst and Feels, Bisexual Yusuf, Bottom Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Canon-Typical Violence, Catholic Crimes Against Humanity, Catholic Guilt, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Declarations Of Love, Emotionally Repressed Nicolo, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Time, Former Priest Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Gay Nicolo, Getting to Know Each Other, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Language Barrier, M/M, Merchant Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani, Minor Injuries, Mutual Pining, POV Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Past Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani/Female OC, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, So much goddamn yearning, Story within a Story, Tenderness, Top Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Yearning, Yusuf said fuck your white guilt, more bed sharing because that’s what love is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:21:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26648167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldheartedsky/pseuds/goldheartedsky
Summary: “If you wish, you may accompany me to my village,” he says, the other man’s hands stilling their motion.“Do you care for my company?” the man asks hesitantly. “After every time I have killed you?”Yusuf shakes his head and a low chuckle escapes him. “No, but it seems that you are in a much sadder state than I am. My mother would think me cruel for abandoning you.”After a tentative truce, Yusuf and Nicolò go home.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 374
Kudos: 823





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be more apparent in the later chapters, but all fully italicized lines are meant to be spoken in Arabic, and non-italicized lines are in Genoese. I didn’t want to mess up any translations so I figured it was best to leave them as-is!

* * *

It comes out unexpectedly as he is about to die.

He can feel the arrow working its way through his stomach, pushing and pulling its way out of his body. Yusuf stumbles, his stride collapsing as another arrow buried inside his ribs with a sharp thud. This is not the first time. He has felt death before and knows what’s coming. But the burning in his lungs as he struggles to inhale, copper blood bubbling up onto his tongue, is his least favorite way to die.

His knees hit the earth, ruby spilling down his chin, and listens to the man’s footsteps catch up with him.

The first arrow finally pushes free from his back and clatters to the ground, only to be replaced by another. Yusuf groans when it hits him, finding home in the meat of his shoulder, but still does not move. He is so tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of dying and being unable to stay dead.

The man circles him, pale eyes wild with panic, and draws his blade.

They know each other so intimately now that it has become a dance. The chase, the final blow, the resurrection. It has been days and the battleground is behind them. It is only them and it is only this.

Yusuf meets the man’s eyes and feels the tip of the blade dig into the dip in his throat. _Demone_ , the man hisses in the crisp snarl of his Genoese tongue. Demon. He’s been called that by Pilgrims before, but Yusuf was always on the higher ground, cutting them down instead of on his knees at the man’s mercy. Another arrow drops free.

And then it comes.

He shakes his head, the blood beginning to recede, and begs in mirrored Genoese, “Enough. Please.”

The man’s eyes flash with widened horror and his blade slips into Yusuf’s neck in a moment of shocked alarm. Yusuf hears the clatter of the sword as it falls and hands come around his neck, staunching the wound, but it is too late.

He falls to the earth and the world goes black.

When he wakes again, the arrows are gone from his chest and the man’s weapons are in a pile away from them. Yusuf pushes himself up and stares at the man knelt by his side. “How long was I gone?” he asks quietly.

The man’s face pales, still sunk in unease at the unexpected shared language, and shakes his head. “Not long,” he whispers. “It was quick.”

There are rust colored stains on the other man’s arms, on his rolled sleeves, and it reminds Yusuf of the dark clay earth back in his home. He has been gone almost six years and he misses his family. Misses it like a wound in his chest that still has not healed. All this from spilt blood.

The sun is bright and hot in the sky and Yusuf can feel the heat of it on his face. The man in front of him is beginning to burn across the skin of his nose and cheekbones. He’s still staring like Yusuf had been carved from the universe solely to torture his existence and the world around them is so so quiet. Finally, the man spits, “Men like you do not speak my tongue. You are a first.” The words are biting. Accusatory. Sharp like jagged teeth into Yusuf’s healed neck. “Why do you speak it?”

“You are not the first man from Genoa I have been acquainted with. _Inshallah_ , you shall be the last,” he says, rising from the ground. The man scrabbles up, eyes on his weapons, and Yusuf holds a single hand out in reassurance. “I do not wish to kill you again. It does not appear to be doing much good.”

The man blinks owlishly, his blue eyes—pale as the costal waters—disappearing behind his dark eyelashes. There are dark washes of grey under his eyes as well, Yusuf notes, and wonders if the man has been too busy chasing him to sleep. Maybe he looks the same and there is no way to tell. The man shifts, sandals digging into the dirt, and his shoulders sag wearily. “I do not want to run anymore,” he says and his voice is dry and worn thin. “I am so tired.”

Yusuf expects them to separate, expects the man to disappear back to the battlefield and the men he came with. But he does not. The man waits with him as Yusuf sets a camp and performs salah, watching him silently. He does not eat any bread that Yusuf offers and falls asleep on the ground, back turned away, one hand on his sword.

The fire dies to embers and Yusuf watches the man through the faint smoke trailing up into the night sky.

He wakes to see the man standing in the early dawn, arms raised, his upturned palms by his shoulders. Yusuf can hear him speaking some language he can’t quite pick out—Latin possibly—and he tries not to startle the man as he sits up.

The man’s voice quiets and he’s silent for a few minutes before finally turning. “You were watching,” he snaps. His upper lip curls. “You have no decency.”

“I have never seen a Christian pray,” Yusuf answers, winding a loose silk thread at the bottom of his tunic around his fingers. A smile quirks on his lips and goes unanswered by the other man. “Forgive me for my curiosity.”

“There is little time for praying when you are dying in Jerusalem.” The man’s hands clench into fists at his sides, muscles cording in his forearms. He shakes his head, long hair falling into his eyes. “I do not know why I am even telling you this. I have seen what you and your people do in battle. Soulless killing.”

The words cut deeper than any knife could and Yusuf’s face burns with held-back rage. “You come into another peoples’ land and claim it for yourself and call _us_ soulless? This was not your home. You burned everything to the ground and you think you are the only ones that had good men at your side?” The other man turns and Yusuf scrambles to his feet, shouting, “Do not turn away from me!”

“Or what?” the man snarls. “You shall kill me again?”

“You are blind if you think that you are the only one who has lost people you loved.” He remembers his younger brother gasping in the dirt, crimson blood spilling from his chest as Yusuf begged him to stay awake. There was no time to bury him, no time to weep in the heat of battle. The salt settled in his stomach and failed to quench the need to seek vengeance on anything necessary. Now Yusuf was left with only grief. His voice quells as he breathes. “Killing you will not bring back what has been taken from me. Please, do not tempt me again; those wounds are still fresh.”

The man turn back toward him, sun creeping up over the horizon and bathing him in a deep gold. His face is in shadows and Yusuf cannot read him as easily as he has before. “What was his name?” The man’s voice is quiet, almost too gentle, and it throws Yusuf in a tilt. “The friend you lost.”

His throat tightens and he clears it quickly. “Imran. My _brother_ ,” he mutters, twisting the silver ring he had taken from Imran’s cold hand after he had slipped away. “He was young.”

The man shoves his hair from his face with both hands and his eyes are so focused, so unyielding, that they feel as sharp as his sword at Yusuf’s neck. He doesn’t say anything for the longest time but finally nods. “I am sorry your brother is gone.”

The words die between them and Yusuf feels no satisfaction from the apology. Words will never bring his brother back and the man in front of him, though he did not strike the blow, sounds hollow with the concession. Yusuf clenches his teeth so hard that he can hear them grind in the back of his head. “You are not sorry,” he growls and the man’s gaze averts. “You are just like the rest of them.”

The man makes no attempt to stop him as Yusuf storms from the campsite.

He loses track of how far he goes, but by the time he stumbles to his knees, he’s lost sight of the man. Yusuf’s stomach turns and he heaves the thin contents of his stomach into the ground. It burns the back of his throat, his nostrils, his tongue. He sucks heaving breaths through an open mouth and shoves his fist between his lips to keep from screaming.

His teeth cut into his knuckles and it will never be enough.

~~~

It is dark before Yusuf returns to the campsite.

The fire is burning bright and the man looks up as he approaches. He says nothing, only tilts his head to the last bit of bread they have left. Yusuf regards him icily, asking, “Why are you still here?”

The man stares into the fire, shadows flickering across his face. He shakes his head and mumbles, “I have nowhere to go.” Yusuf kneels in front of the provisions and takes the bread in one hand and the dates in the other. He takes a bite and the man finally turns to him. “When you leave me, where will you return to?”

Yusuf swallows the thick mouthful of bread and tugs at his boots. “Why do you care?”

The man scoffs. Shakes his head. “I do not. Do you wish for silence, then?”

“From you? _Dearly_ ,” he spits, grabbing for his water. The man ducks his head, hair shrouding his face. The anger burns like a low ember in Yusuf’s chest and he still does not understand why he cannot let go of it. Every time he looks at the other man, it sparks again and Yusuf feels his skin singe with it. He eats in silence before finally sighing. “I wish to return to Ifriqiya. To my family. It has been many years since I have seen them.”

The man glances at him, blue eyes flashing in the firelight. “I am sure they miss you greatly.”

“Does your family not wish for your return?” Yusuf questions.

“I would not know. I have not seen my family since I was young. Since I was sent away.” The man’s hands scrub across his thighs in an almost anxious manner. “Consider yourself blessed to have what many do not.”

His eyebrows knit together in the center of his forehead and there are thousands of questions on the tip of his tongue. He could let them spill down his chin, could let them drown them both in sharp waves, but none come forth. Yusuf swallows every single one and finishes his meal in silence.

The flames burn low and the man adds another snapped branch to the fire.

“If you wish, you may accompany me to my village,” he says, the man’s hands stilling their motion.

“Do you care for my company?” the man asks hesitantly. “After every time I have killed you?”

Yusuf shakes his head and a low chuckle escapes him. “No, but it seems that you are in a much sadder state than I am. My mother would think me cruel for abandoning you.” He half expects a smile but the man’s expression doesn’t change. He remains stone faced and distant but never looks away from the fire. “Will you join me?”

“I do not even know your name,” the man whispers, barely audible over the crackling tinder. “And yet you ask me to join you.”

“Yusuf al-Kaysani,” he says without hesitance. “I hope you will at least return my good graces and give me yours.”

There is no denying the slightest shake in the man’s hand as he tucks his hair behind his ear. Yusuf watches his back rise and fall as the man breathes heavily through his gently parted mouth. Watches his throat tighten as he swallows. The cut of his cheekbones is sharper in the shadow of the flames as he turns his body toward Yusuf. He nods, mouth pressed thin. “My name is Nicolò. My mother named me Nicolò.”

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò’s past life is uncovered piece by piece and the aftermath of the war they have left behind catches up with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a lot longer than the first but I couldn’t figure out a good cut point that didn’t almost double the word count! TW at end of chapter.

* * *

It is a two day walk to Damascus and they are both parched by the time they arrive, bellies empty and aching.

Yusuf trades his silk cloak and a few of the coins he has for camels and provisions enough to get them to Alexandria. They will be able to board passage on a ship at the port and sail to Mahdia, since the ports in the Levant are now under Christian control and Yusuf does not trust them. He swallows back laughter when Nicolò’s camel tosses him as soon as he has mounted, sending the man into the dirt.

Nicolò’s face twists in annoyance as he climbs the saddle again. “You jest, but I have never been on a camel before.”

“Have you _not_?” Yusuf asks, forcing himself to keep a straight face. “You hide it well.”

The other man’s features knit into a frown that lasts for days. The ride is silent for over a week, until they reach the Jordan river. Yusuf feels his skin crawl with grime, feels his bones ache from days in the sun. Nicolò has been stiff on his camel, wincing at every footfall over the past two days, but still does not complain of his suffering.

“We need to camp,” he says finally, looking over at the other man. Nicolò looks relieved at the words but shakes his head. “Nicolò, we must camp or you will not make the journey. We still have many days to ride before Alexandria.”

“I do not wish to make it any longer,” Nicolò croaks, voice tight from disuse.

But he does not make another protest when they find a cool, shaded spot bank along the river. Yusuf dismounts easily, tying the reins to a twisted sycamore, and turns for Nicolò. The other man’s camel comes to a stuttering stop and Yusuf takes the reins from his stiff fingers. “Your hands bear much weight of the ride,” he says, offering his own to the Genoan man after both camels are secured.

“My legs feel worse,” Nicolò admits as he refuses Yusuf’s hand, climbing down woodenly. His knees buckle and he drops to the ground with a low groan. “I have healed from so many injuries and yet this still plagues me.”

“Maybe our blessing still has limits placed upon it,” Yusuf offers, tugging his boots free of his feet. His toes spread and he watches Nicolò stretch back against the grassy bank. The other man’s eyes flutter closed and his head lolls back, brow still pinched. Yusuf lets the cool breeze from the river blow across his face as he unwraps the turban around his neck and head.

Then, he stands and pulls his tunic over the back of his head. Nicolò cracks a single eye open and mumbles, “What are you doing?”

“Swimming,” he says plainly, unlacing the front of his pants. The other man turns away as Yusuf undresses completely. The water is cool as he steps down into the river. It washes up over his calves, his thighs, up to his waist as Yusuf continues to sink himself into the Jordan. He dips his head under the surface and, when he comes up, he finds Nicolò watching him. “You should join me,” he calls, voice echoing off the ripples. “Or can you not swim?”

“Genova is a costal state,” Nicolò replies flatly. “I would be a disgrace if I could not.”

“Then you should join me,” he says again, pushing his curls back from his face. Yusuf raises an eyebrow and his face splits in a wide grin when Nicolò groans again, rolling up off the ground.

His grin fades though, the moment the man lets his outer tunic fall to the ground. Nicolò has always hidden himself away for bathing or changing, out of Yusuf’s gaze, but now he is unashamedly baring himself—linen pants falling from his legs. His heart rabbits hard against his chest, creeping high into his throat, at the strong muscles of the man’s thighs. His sturdy calves. Nicolò’s gaze averts as he pulls off his final undertunic and steps toward the water.

He is softer than Yusuf expects—abdomen and hips padded with healthy weight. He doesn’t look like a fighter. Doesn’t look like a killer, though Yusuf has been felled by him a dozen times before. There’s some heavy weight in his stomach that he refuses to acknowledge as the other man slips into the water with him.

Nicolò is a far better swimmer than he is a rider, cutting through the water with ease. He surfaces, long hair dripping into his bearded face, and it is the first time Yusuf has seen him smile. It is fleeting though—a bright flash like the sun off fresh steel.

“You do not disgrace your people after all, Nicolò,” Yusuf says as they swim to the middle of the river.

“You say that and yet know little of me, Yusuf,” the other man replies. “If you knew—”

“I would change my mind?” he asks, splashing a handful of water at Nicolò. “What kind of man do you take me for?” Nicolò scoffs and Yusuf continues to prod the tender spots as he finds them opening. “If I ask you about yourself, will you answer me truthfully?”

Nicolò’s head dips under the water and only his eyes are visible when he comes up. Bubbles pour from his nose and he disappears again. This is a game, maybe. Cat and mouse like he used to play with his sisters as a child. Yusuf turns in the river as the other man resurfaces behind him, spitting water from his rose-red lips. After a moment, he sighs. Relents. “As you wish, Yusuf.”

The world quiets as he pries answers from Nicolò’s clenched heart.

“What was your mother’s name?”

“Chiara,” Nicolò says, lips curling around the vowels sweetly. “She had dark hair like my sister, Francesca.” His eyes are clouded and a little distant. “I remember she used to sing to me, but I cannot recall her face easily.”

Yusuf’s mouth quirks into a smile. “Do you sing then?” Nicolò disregards the question and their feet brush together under the water. “You do sing, don’t you? You just will not sing for me.”

“I have not sung since before I joined the church. Since I became a priest.”

The water splashes as Yusuf catches the words clearly. Nicolò’s arms swan out in gentle waves and he does not look away this time. Does not look ashamed at the caused shock. Yusuf swallows down his surprise and whispers, “You were a priest?” Nicolò nods tersely. “And yet you left to fight?”

“Holy Wars ask much of holy men.”

Yusuf can tell there is more to the story than that, but he knows if he digs too deep, pulls too much from the carefully opened crack in Nicolò’s chest, then the man in front of him will disappear from his side. A book to be read, but slowly, as not to tear the delicate pages. His mother always told him that his curiosity would be the end of him and look where it has brought Yusuf. Back to the Holy Lands with a Genoan priest.

They linger in the river for hours.

Yusuf washes his clothing along the rocks on the bank and keeps one eye trained on the man floating on his back in the middle of the river. Nicolò’s eyes are closed and, for the first time since Yusuf has laid eyes on him, his face is tranquil. Every tight crease, every worn line, has gone slack and untroubled.

He hangs his clothes along the low hanging branches of the sycamore to dry and gathers Nicolò’s as well. The other man had abandoned his Genoese archer’s uniform back in Damascus and wore the loose Islamic dress that Yusuf called his own. Deep blues and bright cream that made Nicolò’s eyes look sharp as the Ionian Sea. The silk and cotton spill from his arms as he turns back to the bank, only to see Nicolò emerging from the water. “You have done enough, Yusuf,” he hums, stepping onto the bank. “I will wash them myself.”

Water drips from his hair and chest, clinging to the dark thatch below Nicolò’s stomach and Yusuf swallows around a cotton tongue. If he was a weaker man, he would be gone—given away by his body’s betrayal. But he forces himself to meet the man’s eyes and passes the clothes to him. “If you insist.”

There’s that veiled smile again. Hidden behind distrust and a quiet fire that burns through every vein. Nicolò’s fingers sink into the fabric and his pupils are blown wide, even in the sun. “Thank you,” he whispers, voice far more gentle than Yusuf expects.

He turns back toward the Jordan and a knife goes straight into Yusuf’s chest, up through the space between his ribs and right into the muscle of his heart. There are deep scars criss-crossing Nicolò’s back, too many to count. Scars that their newfound immortality have not healed. They’re old. Stretched. Stitched into Nicolò from some horrific source. Yusuf stares, blood running cold, as the other man kneels by the river’s edge and begins his work.

His voice comes out wrecked, furious in ways he does not understand. “Who did this to you?”

Nicolò’s head snaps up and he looks back over a shoulder. His brow furrows again, all peace gone. “I do not know what you speak of.”

Yusuf’s throat goes tight. How could he not? Have they become so much of a constant that they are no longer on Nicolò’s mind? He motions to the man’s body with a shaking hand. “Your back; they _beat_ you. Who did this?”

The wet silk drops to the ground with a soft splatter as Nicolò stands suddenly, eyes burning. “No one has touched me, Yusuf,” he growls, deadly as any animal. His shoulders square and there is no shame in his naked body. Yusuf steps back at the rush of rage. “I would not stand for someone to beat me as you think they have.”

“But…”

“I did this to myself.”

The ground feels like sand and Yusuf is sinking faster than he realizes. A breath punches out of his chest and he chokes, “ _What_?”

“It was atonement,” Nicolò says sharply. “For my sins. So that I may have been allowed to become an priest.” Yusuf stares at him numbly, horror creeping up his throat. He cannot think of a sin so great that it would bring any man to do this to himself. His mind is screaming at him and Nicolò looks far too stoic for this chaos. “I will not apologize for this, Yusuf.”

“How old were you?” Yusuf demands, his voice rising. The other man does not answer him and he will have no satisfaction without resolution. “How _old_ were you, Nicolò?!”

And there, the crack begins. It starts in Nicolò’s throat as he swallows thickly—in his trembling chin as he clenches his jaw. Grows to a crevasse so wide, so deep, that Yusuf sees only nothingness. His blue-green eyes become glassy and there is no longer the wall of a man Yusuf saw a second before. His chest heaves with a shuddering breath and he grows curbed. “When it was asked of me, I was fourteen years old.”

Yusuf’s stomach turns. “You were a _child_.”

Nicolò does not argue again, only gives a small, ashamed nod and turns from him. The conversation is over; Yusuf knows this. But it does not quell the raging flames in his stomach. The Catholic Church had burned through half of the Levant, slaughtered thousands, and yet it still is unbelievable to him that they could callously ask a mere boy to maim himself like Nicolò had.

Yusuf scrubs his hands over his face, thinks of his sisters, thinks of his brother, thinks of Nicolò, and fights to hold back tears for all of them.

~~~

They do not speak of the scars again. But the silence has ended.

Yusuf shares stories of Ifriqiya, of teaching his brother and sisters how to swim in the sea. He shares stories of learning to sail with his father and the countries he’s seen as a merchant. There’s a faint smile on Nicolò’s face as he listens to him describe Greece and Morocco and Cyprus—places Nicolò never even dreamed of seeing. Yusuf even gets the other man to open up about growing up in Genoa, talking quietly about fishing with his father and his family’s home.

But still, there is no mention of why he was sent away.

They follow the river through the wide valley past the Dead Sea in an effort to steer clear of the mountains. Yusuf could navigate himself through them, but he knows the other man is still a timid rider and he would hate to lose a camel to misplaced step.

“Do you have a wife waiting for you back in your village?” Nicolò asks as the desert stretches on for miles in front of them. They are a week’s ride from Cairo and the mountains of the Levant are behind them. “A woman who misses you?”

Yusuf grins wickedly. “Is that something that vexes you dearly? The thought of me married?” Nicolo blushes and turns away from him. “I have found that many people do not appreciate having a loved one travel as much as I must. My father was gone much of my childhood as well.”

“Does your mother not mind?”

“She used to,” he hums, remembering the familiar arguments his parents would have when he was young. “But, it seemed that the less she saw him, the harder she loved him when he was in front of her. Sometimes that love seemed so wide, so deep that it rivaled the ocean. I would watch it wash over her when he would leave, and even faster when I was on the boat with my father.” Yusuf twists the loose ends of the reins around his palm and looks over at the other man. Nicolò has been watching him intently, eyes disappearing into the bright blue sky behind him. “It took much from my mother when my father passed. If I am ever lucky enough to find love, I pray that it lasts long.”

Nicolò’s mouth quirks in amusement. “You are a hopeless romantic, Yusuf.”

“I have been called worse things by men like you, Nicolò. I will take your kind words to heart.”

The other man’s cheeks pull back and a smile is bubbling up like a rushing fall when Nicolò’s face falls. His brow pulls together in worry and he pulls his camel to a halting stop. Yusuf circles around the front of him and opens his mouth, about to ask the reason for the delay. But then he stops. Turns. Smells it too.

Smoke.

Familiar smoke, like the kind that carved through his nostrils during the siege. Smoke from buildings, smoke from burnt animals, smoke from bodies. His lungs collapse and his face falls. “No,” Yusuf breathes. “ _No!_ ” He digs his heels into the animal’s side. His camel bellows and takes off at a breakneck speed toward the far off plume of black smoke.

“Yusuf, wait!” he hears called after him, Nicolò’s voice dying in the distance.

But he cannot wait. He cannot let this happen to another village. He’s seen too much destruction already, seen what the crusaders could do to the Levant. Allah has blessed him with this everlasting life and Yusuf is a coward if he stands idly by.

The village is still smoking when Yusuf stops his camel. His chest heaves and his hands shake as he steps down from the saddle onto weak legs. The fires are gone and the soldiers are gone and what is left behind is worse than he could have imagined. There are bodies by the collapsed well and in the street, blood soaking into the packed desert earth. He can see men and women and children everywhere, arms reaching out for one another as if they had tried to run.

Tears flood his eyes and he covers his mouth with his hand in a futile attempt to muffle a sob. Yusuf can barely see where he is going, stumbling through the small settlement as he looks for any survivors. He looks everywhere and finds none. There is broken, burnt furniture at every doorway—women and children slaughtered in charred beds.

The wounds he can make out are familiar. Straight, precise cuts from a European longsword. Arrows from longbows. Yusuf has felt these injuries, survived them first hand. He knows who is responsible.

It has been months since he felt grief like this. Since holding Imran. But this grief is heavier. Hotter. It scorches his hands in bright, burning rage as he fumbles to keep hold of it. But suddenly it expands. Drowns him. Fills his lungs and pulls him under. A savage scream tears his throat as he falls to his knees, fingernails breaking in the dirt.

Every prayer escapes him and all Yusuf can do is weep.

Time escapes him, his anguish burrowing through his body like maggots in a grave, until he hears the scrape of footsteps behind him. He looks up, world swimming in red, and sees Nicolò’s horror-struck face. The blue of his irises is piercing against his bloodshot eyes and his cheeks are wet with tears. “Yusuf…” Nicolò whispers, voice wrecked. “Yusuf, I…”

“You _what_?” he snarls, lurching to his feet, a hand on his knife. His heart burns inside his aching chest and he would spill this man’s blood if it would do any good. A furious tear cuts down his cheek and Nicolò looks around at the lifeless bodies in helpless desperation.

“I…” Nicolò looks lost for words and Yusuf’s blood smolders in his veins. “I cannot believe something like this has happened.”

“Are you _blind_?” Yusuf barks incredulously, shoving the other man so hard in the chest that Nicolò goes reeling back. “Tell me, Nicolò, have you forgotten what the men who you came with have done to the Holy Lands?! What _you_ have done?”

“I would not have done _this_.”

“Would you not?” The handle of his dagger digs into the palm of his hand from how hard he is clenching his fist. “I have seen you on the battlegrounds. You slaughtered my men, my friends, and yet you say you would not have done this?”

“These are women and children,” Nicolò chokes. His face is pale, even in the hot sun. “The men I killed were…”

His voice fails him and there it is. The lie Yusuf was foolish enough to believe—the thought that Nicolò sees him now any differently than he did before. The sharp steel of his dagger rings out as he pulls it from his sheath. He wraps a hand in the cerulean blue silk of Nicolò’s tunic and holds the blade to the man’s throat. “Look me in the eye and tell me you did not come to the Holy Lands to kill men like me,” Yusuf demands, voice on the edge of begging. He wants the lie to come out Nicolò’s mouth so much that it feels like it comes straight from his bones. “ _Tell_ me you did not not choose to leave your priesthood in order to spill blood.”

Nicolò’s eyes meet his and Yusuf has never seen him look so ashamed. The sharp edge cuts into the tender skin below his jaw and a tear rolls down his cheek as he stutters, “I c-cannot.”

Is this what betrayal feels like? The blindingly quick bite of infidelity cuts sharper than any knife. “If I could open your neck and watch your blood pour into this sand, I would,” Yusuf spits. “I would kill you graciously and feel no regret.”

A shallow breath falls from Nicolò’s parted mouth and his moments are slow as he carefully removes the cloth wrapped around his head and shoulders. His chin tips up, baring the long line of his throat to Yusuf, but his gaze never breaks. “If it would appease you, Yusuf,” Nicolò whispers, no hesitant tremble in his voice. “I pray that it holds fast this time.”

It would be so easy. So easy to let the blade give Yusuf the restitution he is so desperately seeking. But the moment skin splits and Nicolò lets out a pained gasp—the first bead of blood trailing down into the hollow of his collarbone—Yusuf’s hand shakes. His dagger falls to the ground between them and he shakes his head, teeth bared. “No,” he spits, watching Nicolò’s face drown in shamed dismay. “I will not allow you the satisfaction of becoming a martyr like your beloved Christ.”

His hand falls from the man’s chest and Nicolò covers the now-empty space like he has been branded.

~~~

It takes Yusuf hours to dig all the graves.

He cannot wash the bodies as he would have done before—the well water has turned to rock and mud, any fabric for shrouds has been burnt to ash. It is devastating and grueling work and Yusuf can barely breathe from how much time he has spent crying over people he does not know. But they are his people and they deserve the respect he can give and the prayers to be said over them.

There are over sixty bodies in all and it is dark before he can perform Salat al-Janazah. He feels hollow and empty, worn in ways that do not heal. He can see a campfire outside the far edge of the village and knows it is Nicolò, but he’s far from caring anymore. If Yusuf never had to look upon that man’s face again, he would be satisfied.

Yusuf mixes ash with water from his waterskin and makes a marker as best he can in the moonlight. There are no names to write and he can barely see through his tears, but he marks them all the same.

His legs shake with every footstep it takes to bring him to the fire. Disgust spills between his clenched teeth when he sees the Genoan man sitting by the flames. Nicolò is cross legged, head in his hands, and does not look up when Yusuf approaches him. “Why are you still here?” Yusuf snarls, exhausted, but not exhausted enough to keep the hate from spilling out of him. “The tracks from those men would not have been hard to find. It would not take you long to catch up to them.”

Nicolò’s shoulders tremble. “I do not wish to go with them,” he mumbles into his palms.

“And you think I still wish to look upon your face after what your people have done here?” He kicks his boot down on the other man’s shoulder, knocking him to the dirt. Nicolò stares up at him but does not move to right himself. Yusuf’s hands clench into fists and he wishes he had the strength to wrap them around Nicolò’s neck. “ _Leave_. I want nothing more from you.”

Nicolò’s boots scuff they ground as he kneels in front of Yusuf. His hands clench around his knees and he hangs his head. “Please, Yusuf, I do not wish to go with them.” His eyes are shadowed when he looks up, firelight flickering across his face like lightning. “Please do not send me away.”

“Why should you not join them? Would you not be free to finish your God-given mission that you left the church for?” Yusuf spits and buries the urge to strike Nicolò. His tone is mocking, ruthless, and, from the look on Nicolò’s face, cuts deeper than any blow of a sword. “You left your homeland to take mine and yet you do not wish to join the men that are as bloodthirsty as you?” Nicolò’s face crumbles and he does not want the man’s tears—though they come. “You know it in your heart what you have chosen to be.”

“I do not wish to go with them,” Nicolò repeats a third time, shuddering around every syllable. “I do not wish to be a man that would be welcomed into their arms.” He covers his face again to hide his shame. “I cannot go back, Yusuf.”

Yusuf blinks, bewildered, and stumbles back from the other man. He listens to Nicolò suck in heavy breaths through clenched teeth and wonders if this is all another trick. “This cannot be the first time you have seen such horror,” he whispers. Jerusalem was carnage but nothing compared to the trail of devastation left as the Crusaders marched to the Holy Lands. “All the lands you destroyed to get here.”

“I did not march to Jerusalem,” Nicolò says quietly, hand still covering his eyes. “I sailed from Genova. I do not know what happened in Antioch.”

“It was not just Antioch. It was Adana and Aleppo and every Hebrew and Muslim village your men came across. It is all gone because of men like you.” The memories of every familiar stop on his trading routes up in flames is enough to make Yusuf sick, but he will not spare Nicolò. “All this and you say you did not know what your men did?”

Silence shrouds them and he stares down at Nicolò as he wipes his cheeks and shakes his head. His voice is thin and weary and heavy with humiliation as he whispers, “I did not ask. I did not wish to know.”

“How blessed you must be to cling to your blind ignorance.”

He grasps at Yusuf’s feet, begging through his disgrace, “I am sorry, Yusuf. Please, forgive me.”

“I am not the one who can forgive you, Nicolò,” Yusuf says, resisting the damning urge to rest his hand on the crown of the man’s head. “What you have done is between you and your God.”

He tears his feet away from Nicolò’s hands and some terrible feeling courses through him when the other man makes no move to rise. Nicolò stays hunched over in submission, lips mumbling through hushed Latin. Yusuf stays, watches for a moment, until the sickness washes over him and he turns his back.

His bedroll is laid out for him already and another rush of disgust hits him when he realizes Nicolò has done this for him. Yusuf turns his back to the man across the fire from him and falls into an uneasy, heavy sleep.

~~~

It comes in flashes through his dreams.

Bodies, littered across the Levant.

His mother, combing through her hair, headscarf loose around her shoulders.

The sweet taste of pomegranates in his mouth, seeds spilling through his fingertips.

The sheer curtains of his home blowing through open windows. The tile cool on the soles of his feet.

Blood soaking through cerulean blue silk.

His hands, clutching pale skin. His fingers, sunk deep in strong muscle.

And then suddenly, the flashes stop. The world of his dreams slows.

Yusuf moves through the house silently, his sisters running and laughing around him. His mother’s hand brushes against his arm but he cannot hear her voice. His heart beats slowly and gently in his chest, no worry clouding him. The silk curtains flow through his hands like water as he slips through the doorway to the riad.

His mother’s lemon tree. Far larger than it was when he left home. His mother’s lemon tree and a man in front of it. Yusuf’s mouth floods with the sour taste as the man turns, his profile sharp against the leaves and budding fruit.

A smile crosses Nicolò’s face and Yusuf wakes with a gasp.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: self-inflicted child abuse, war crimes, and mention of child death
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! ☺️


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò finally shares his story and Yusuf tells a tale of his own.

* * *

He packs the camels before the sun rises.

Yusuf turns over his shoulder when he hears the other man stirring. Nicolò blinks awake and scrambles upright in panic when he sees the camels ready. Even in the pre-dawn light, Yusuf cannot deny the fear in the Genoan‘s face. The fear of being left behind—of being sent away once more.

“Yusuf…” he breathes, so similarly to the prayers last night that it almost sounds like singing. “Please…”

“Get up,” Yusuf mumbles, his heart still uneasy from last night’s dream. “It is still a few days ride to Cairo and another week to Alexandria. We must go now if we are to make time.” Nicolò stands on shaky legs and a look of bewildered confusion washes his face pale in the sky’s blue glow. He holds the camel’s reins out as an olive branch of peace. “I will not offer a second time.”

This time, unlike the first, there is no hesitation. Nicolò nods silently, gathering his things in a hurry while Yusuf prays. The other man does not look him in the eye as he takes the leather straps and climbs the saddle, managing to stay put as his camel stands. Nicolò does not speak at all until they begin their journey and the sun has fully climbed over the horizon.

“I pray you do not feel obligated to bring me with you after what happened in that village,” he mumbles, head down. Yusuf turns and watches him twist the leather straps tight around his knuckles and palms. The skin turns white. “I do not wish to burden you.”

“I am not sure you know what it takes to be a burden,” Yusuf snaps softly, more bite to his voice than he means. Nicolò flinches at the words and he sighs. “I asked you to come because last night, I dreamt of you.” Nicolò’s head turns to him in surprise. “Of you in my mother’s house.” His throat feels tight and he cannot admit what he knows the dream truly meant. So Yusuf lets out the breath he was holding and, only in Arabic, whispers, _“I dreamt I loved you.”_

There is no sign on Nicolò’s face that he understands him and Yusuf is grateful beyond measure. His brow twists and his face looks tight with unease. “Forgive me, but I do not know what you have said,” Nicolò murmurs.

“Nor will I tell you. Much like the secrets you still keep from me, my confidence is my own.”

“What more would you ask of me?”

Yusuf huffs out a short laugh. “If I asked of the one thing you have not divulged to me, I promise you, Nicolò, you would not speak truthfully,” he says, watching the other man’s cheeks flush red. “You have said much of your family but never of why you were sent away. Forgive me for saying this, but I think there is much more you have not told anyone about for a very long time.”

There is no denial on Nicolò’s face as he turns back to the western horizon. After a few minutes of silence, the hush breaks. “Tonight, I will tell you, Yusuf. If anyone is deserving of the tale, it is you.”

They do not speak of much until the camp is set up for the night. Yusuf cooks a hearty meal of goat and rice while Nicolò silently stares into the fire. They eat their fill and, though his patience is thinning, he will wait. He watches the other man suck in a trembling inhale through his nose and press the heels of his hands to the sockets of his eyes. After a moment, Nicolò speaks. “I was twelve. The age boys begin realizing their bodies have changed and the age you begin finding yourself girls to be sweet with.” He shakes his head and his voice becomes unsteady. “I was not one of those boys.”

“I spent my days by the boats, sailing with my father and fishing with some of the other boys from my city. We would swim and search for oysters. I remember how bright the sun was on the water. Sometimes it was so bright that I could barely see.” Nicolò’s thumbnail traces the embroidery on his deep blue tunic. “The son of the captain of my father’s boat was named Emilio,” he says, voice so gentle that it sounds like an facade. Yusuf watches the other man’s face grow tender and reminiscent, eyes soft in the low light. “We were very close, even as young children. By the time we were boys, we were inseparable.” Nicolò closes his eyes and it looks as if he was struggling to piece together old, faded memories. “Emil had golden hair and eyes that looked like honey when we came back into the sun. He only ever smiled at me.”

Yusuf is familiar with stories like these—has lived through them a handful of times. But those are the stories he holds dear, not Nicolò. There cannot be a way that they end the same.

“The closer we became, the more my father watched me. Watched for any signs of my turning to something he despised. But I was a good son. I was a good son until the day before my the thirteenth year of my birth.” Nicolò sniffles quietly, wiping his eyes with trembling hands. “We had gone swimming. Emilio dove to the bottom of the ocean, picked out the biggest oyster he could find.” He stares at his hands, washed in the flickering orange glow. “We went to the sea cave only he and I knew about. Emil cracked the oyster open and inside was a white pearl; it was so big, so bright, that it looked like the moon.”

“That is a most precious gift, Nicolò,” Yusuf says, voice hoarse from disuse. “You had a kind friend.”

The fire burns low but neither of them move to feed it.

Nicolò chin quivers and he clenches his jaw to keep himself steady. “Yusuf, you do not understand. I felt close to Emilio, ways that I did not feel close to the other boys we spent time with. He began to consume my thoughts, both sleeping and awake.” He shifts restlessly, as if his skin is crawling off his body. As if the long forgotten memories are suddenly too much for his body. As if Nicolò is drowning in the past.

“You do not need to tell me more,” Yusuf rasps, shaking his head. He cannot bear to carry the secret with him. Cannot weather the storm that rages inside Nicolò.

“I swore to you that I would,” the other man says, choking out the words. “I will tell you everything, Yusuf, but please, do not look down at me for being a weak man.” There is a sincerity in his voice that cuts deep and Yusuf can do nothing but nod—a silent vow. Relief bleeds from Nicolò’s face as he continues hesitantly. “My thoughts of Emilio became more than thoughts. They turned to dreams and I could not bear them anymore. I knew the way I cared for him was improper. Unholy.”

Silence engulfs them both like a rogue wave, dragging them both to the depths of the realization Yusuf has. He looks at Nicolò, hovers a wary hand over the man’s arm. “You loved Emilio, did you not?”

Nicolò cannot look at him, cannot raise his head even a centimeter. “I prayed to God to fix me, but my prayers went unanswered. I confided in the priest at my church during confessional,” Nicolò whispers, his head falling to his hands. “I confided in him that I did not think of girls as I should, only Emilio. I thought it would be kept between us and God. That I would be prayed for.”

“Nico—”

“The priest told my father,” Nicolò chokes, all at once like it is the first time he’s been allowed this moment. “He told my father what kind of boy I was, what kind of man I would become.”

“And this is why you were sent away.”

There is some strange, fracturing crack deep inside his heart as Nicolò nods, gasping for air. He may truly be suffocating in the waters of his despair, hand breaking the surface. All Yusuf would have to do is reach out and hold him. The gasping turns quickly to sobs and there is no going back now. “I b-begged to see my m-mother,” Nicolò weeps, wet and muffled into the skin of his palms. “I cried for weeks to see her and still she would not come. My family had abandoned m-me and I was too y-young and naive to s-see.”

Yusuf’s eyes burn and he blinks back his own tears. “You were a child,” he whispers. “None of this should have been forced upon you.”

“There is something dark that festers inside of me. S-Something to be cut out and burned but now I am f-forced to live in hell,” Nicolò laments, his edges of his plea scorching to ash like burning paper. He finally raises his head and Yusuf has never seen a more desperate man. “I tried to atone, b-bled for days on end, and yet it was not enough for such a sin as mine. What am I left with, Yusuf? What am I to become?”

“You are to become a kinder person and you have already taken the first steps, Nicolò,” Yusuf whispers, finally resting his hand on the other man’s arm. “You are to become someone who steps away from what is familiar because he knows in his heart that it is wrong.” His grip tightens, fingers dimpling tender skin and Nicolò does not break their eye contact. “You are to become a good man.”

The smell of smoke floods his nostrils as the fire goes out and they are shrouded in darkness. He cannot see Nicolò’s face but feels him pull away, Yusuf’s arm falling back into his lap. “I wish I had your faith, Yusuf.”

~~~

Nicolò does not seem as burdened as he did before.

He sits higher in the saddle, shoulders less hunched. He does not pull away when Yusuf finds it in his heart to make light conversation. Once, and only once, Yusuf even sees the other man’s lips curl into the faintest smile.

Then, at last, after almost a month, they reach Cairo.

The city is bustling, still untouched from most of the fighting to the north, and Yusuf feels himself breathe freely for the first time in a long time. He laughs with merchants he has known for years and lets the sweet flow of Arabic flood past his lips. He bares his brown skin with little fear and cannot stop from smiling. Nicolò watches with sharp, unyielding eyes, his pale face veiled in soft linen, but says nothing to him in the market.

He collects long-forgotten debts from friends who are grateful beyond words that he has made it safely back from the Holy Lands and finds them a spare room in a crowded corner of the city. There is a single bed and a low divan along the wall. There are crates and jars and scrolls piled in any free space and Yusuf takes no hesitation in draping himself across the bed. His eyes close. “I could sleep for a thousand years,” he breathes exhaustedly.

Nicolò kneels on the floor across from him and carefully uncovers his face. Yusuf watches his lips tighten as he chews on the inside of his cheek. “If you wish to do so, you may. I do not mind,” the other man hums and his voice is gentle—his eyes soft.

“Do you vow not to smite me in my sleep?” he asks with a yawn. Yusuf’s heavy eyes slip shut.

“Do not worry, my friend,” Nicolò whispers as he shifts from the floor and away from him. “I can no longer dream of doing such a thing.”

Yusuf falls asleep with the words, “ _my friend,_ ” burning their way into his ears.

When he wakes, the sun has just begun to set. He looks over at the divan where Nicolò is fast asleep, slumped against the side with his chin tucked into his chest, and moves silently as possible. Yusuf makes it to the mosque in time for salah and feels a sense of peace being able to pray among his people again. It has been too long and it makes him so homesick that his heart almost cannot bear the weight.

But even as much as he misses his family, his thoughts trail back to the sleeping Genoan in his room.

Nicolò is still asleep when he returns, but startles awake when Yusuf closes the door. He scrambles from the divan, eyes scanning the room quickly, chest heaving. His breathing slows when he sees Yusuf though, and Nicolò glances out the open window at the dark night sky. “You should not have allowed me to sleep so long.”

Yusuf smiles gently. “I have only just returned. I am sorry I did not wake you before I left.”

They eat a modest dinner of fish, bread, and sweet Egyptian dates with the cool breeze from the Nile flowing across their faces through the open window. The sounds of the city drown out the sounds of their meal and Yusuf watches Nicolò stare at the distant river, stars glittering in his blown-black pupils, but cannot read his silence. “What do you so intently think of, Nicolò?” he asks quietly.

“There is so much music here.” There’s a mournful quality to Nicolò’s voice but he does not allow it to show on his face. “It is one thing I have missed from camps outside of Jerusalem. One thing I have missed from home.”

Yusuf’s eyebrows knit together and he cannot stop the frown that pulls on his lips. “If you miss this so much, why have you not sung?”

Bright sapphire eyes lock on his own. “I have told you before, Yusuf. I have not sung for anyone in many, many years,” Nicolò says, voice bordering the edge of numb. “The last time was for my family.” He shakes his head and turns back to the window; the candlelight flickers on the table between them. “I do not think there is music left in me, Yusuf, but I miss hearing it all the same.”

“If I ask you to sing me a song from your home, would you?”

Yusuf can hear Nicolò’s breath catch but the younger man does not let whatever panic that has set in show. He shakes his head minutely and whispers, soft lips curling around every gentle syllable, “I would do a great many things you ask of me, but not that.”

 _“And if I asked you to touch my face? To kiss me? Would you?”_ Yusuf murmurs in Arabic and he wonders if Nicolò knows.

Knows what he wants and knows how desperately it burns him inside to be wanted back. It has been many years since he has felt this way, but it is so much hotter this time. Like a hand in straight flame, like his soul is being consumed. Nicolò’s ears flush pink under his unyielding gaze and Yusuf’s hands clench into fists underneath the table to keep from reaching for the other man.

They seem to stare at each other for an eternity before Nicolò finally speaks, voice is so soft that Yusuf can barely hear him as he whispers, “You do not know how much it pains me when you speak so that I cannot understand.”

A short, breathless laugh falls from his mouth as Yusuf shakes his head. “It would pain you a great deal more if you knew.”

The flush spreads down over Nicolò’s cheeks as he ducks his head. Silence descends between them and they finish the meal in silence. Yusuf prays again as Nicolò sits quietly on the divan, head bowed. His pale eyes tilt up as Yusuf finishes and turns to him. “Your prayers are beautiful. I did not think your language was until I heard it spill from your tongue.”

“You flatter me greatly, Nicolò,” Yusuf says as flippantly as he can, swallowing his swelling heart back down from his too-tight throat.

“Do _you_ sing?” the other man questions hesitantly, as if knowing was too much a burden.

He shakes his head and sits on the floor in front of Nicolò. “I cannot carry a tune as well as my father did. I am more gifted with my words than with my voice.”

Nicolò’s eyes glitter in the candle’s flames and his jaw clenches, as if to keep from smiling. “You are a story teller, are you not?” Yusuf’s head tilts in begrudging affirmation. “If it is not too much to ask of you, will you grant me the honor of hearing one of your own?”

He breathes a long sigh of feigned exasperation and relents. “As you wish, Nicolò.”

They sit on the floor across from one another, candle flickering between them. Nicolò’s pale skin looks almost gold in the candlelight, his eager eyes unable to hide his suspense. Yusuf rolls the sleeves of his tunic to his elbows and takes a deep breath.

“Once, long ago, there was only darkness. The sun had not yet been created and the moon was not yet whole,” he says, hand curving up in a crescent. “People wept, unable to rise and pray with the sun, unable to make flowers bloom and the harvests grow. Tides swept into cities, wild and untamed, swallowing whole lands into the night sky. Stars fell from the heavens like charred embers. Men and women cowered in fear—all except Samir.”

Nicolò clings to every word as Yusuf spins the tale wider and deeper.

“Samir was a gifted warrior and had won many battles against the darkness. He had protected his people but they had come to the edge of the earth and could run no further. At his side was his most beloved companion, Amit. Samir cared for Amit more deeply than any love that had been created before and could not imagine fighting the stars without his companion by his side.” Yusuf pulls an invisible scimitar from his back, the crescent moon bearing down on him. “Darkness washed into their village, unnoticed by the two men, before the battle had even begun. Before Samir could draw his sword, the night took a star from the sky and buried it deep within his throat, blinding him from the inside out. He screamed out for Amit but the other man could not answer him.”

The fabric of the man’s pants strains as Nicolò’s hands tightens his grip around his knees. His voice is quiet, bated, as he asks, “Where was Amit?”

“The raging sea had dragged him to the bottom of the ocean before Amit could reach for Samir. His lungs filled but he could not drown,” he continues. “The darkness surrounded him so fully that he could no longer see the faintest light of the moon. At the bottom of the world, Amit missed Samir so deeply that he could not rise from the ocean’s floor; his grief was too heavy.” Yusuf’s hands sweep between them like rushing waves. “Samir had not forgotten Amit. Though blinded by the star inside of him, he could not give up his search. He followed the sounds of the waves as they receded back to the sea but it seemed as if the world had been swallowed whole.”

“Amit knew that if the waters returned as they should be, then Samir would be able to find him. Only a full moon would allow him control of the water and Amit prayed to Allah to give him a vision of the answer. Allah heard him, even through mouthfuls of water, and suddenly, Amit’s foot became cut by an ancient, malformed shell. He took the shell between his hands and when he cracked it open, the most beautiful, full moon he had ever seen fell out into his fingers.”

Nicolò’s face splits in a breathless smile. “A pearl,” he gasps.

It takes Yusuf a minute to find the ending. How could he continue when he has been blessed with a smile such as Nicolò’s. Unguarded and raw and everything he has been praying for for as long as he has lived. But he pulls his yearning heart back and grins. “Yes, Nicolò, a _pearl_. The original moon that the sea had hidden away, too scared of its enormous power. The longer Amit held the pearl in his hands, the more it grew in his mind what must be done. He opened his mouth and said one final goodbye to his love before Amit swallowed that beautiful, full-moon pearl.”

A broken, mournful sound punches out of the other man’s throat and Nicolò looks as distraught as Yusuf has ever seen him.

“The pearl inside him became one with Amit. His soul rose from the depths of the sea and into the night sky, growing larger and more powerful until the waters were under his protection. Land opened and the shoreline fled. Rivers grew and the earth was able to breathe again. Samir felt the water rush back from his feet and knew what had happened. He fell to his knees, crying for his lost companion. As Samir collapsed under his sorrow, a broken shell cut his palms. He could feel Amit’s blood in his and could not stand to live another day without the other man.” Yusuf covers his eyes with one hand and bares his neck, clutching his invisible shell in the other. He peeks through his fingers at Nicolò’s wide eyes and says, “Samir took the shell in his hand and opened his throat in one fell strike.”

He makes a slicing motion against his throat and his hands drop to his side.

“As blood poured from his body, the star inside of him fell as well. It mixed with his blood, still burning with rage and grief, and sparked a fire so large that it became the sun. Samir’s soul was so bright that it brought light to the entire world. He and Amit had finally created peace in the universe, brought balance. But they were doomed to spend an eternity orbiting each other, so close but never together. Amit and Samir, the moon and the sun, both prayed for so long, so loudly, that Allah could not help but hear them. So now, every hundred years, they meet in a lover’s embrace. The sun and the moon meet and cover one another as they had done as men,” Yusuf says, voice soft and gentle. “But their love is so glorious, so bright, and so dark, that you will go blind if you stare at their meeting for a moment too long.”

He falls silent and basks in the way Nicolò is looking at him. Like Yusuf has just produced an entire world out of thin air. Nicolò blinks, bringing himself back to this reality, and the unabashed grin still has not yet left his face. “You are magnificent, Yusuf,” the Genoan whispers breathlessly. “That was one of the most beautiful stories I have ever been told.”

It is his turn to feel the heat rise in his cheeks. Yusuf shakes his head, murmuring, “Again, you flatter me too much, Nicolò. I do not deserve your kind words.”

“No, you deserve much, much more.” The smile falls from Nicolò’s face the moment the words fall from his mouth and he looks like he would take them back in a heartbeat if he could. The stone mask sews itself onto his face and the levity is gone. “It is late. We should rest before we set sail tomorrow,” he says, rising quickly and spreads himself awkwardly on the divan.

Yusuf watches Nicolò’s arms curl around himself, fingers digging into the muscle of his biceps and, for once, has no words to say. Nothing that will mend the tender cracks in their tenuous friendship for this night at least.

He blows the flame of the candle into swirling smoke and finds his way to bed.

It takes him a while to find sleep, replaying Nicolò’s bright, eager eyes and wide smile. It felt almost improper, like something Yusuf should feel guilt over for even seeing something that raw. He tosses and turns on the bed, listening to the silence of the room, until a small voice makes him stop. “Yusuf?” Nicolò whispers in the void of darkness.

His lungs catch and Yusuf scrubs a hand over his tired face. “Yes?”

There’s another long, pregnant pause. “The story you told today, it was about two men. Do you not feel shame for speaking about such things?”

“No, Nicolò, I do not. In my culture, there is a long history of such love in poetry and art,” he says gently. “I do not think it shameful to speak of something that carries no shame.”

Yusuf can hear the other man’s breathing—steady but so shallow that it sounds like gasping. When Nicolò finally speaks, it is as wet as the ocean, tears swallowed by hesitation. “Forgive me Yusuf, I do not wish to presume, but…” His breathing grows shaky and Yusuf sits up, staring across into the dark shape of Nicolò’s form. “You speak of such things tenderly. Like you hold love like that dear to your heart.”

The implication is there. The silent question the Genoan cannot bring himself to ask. The hopeful solidarity. Yusuf cannot reach across the divide and offer him a hand, but he can offer a gentle word. “I do,” he says in a low voice. “As much as you continue to believe, you and I are not so different, Nicolò.”

He has prayed for many things in his life, but the only thing in Yusuf’s heart at this moment is the desperate yearning to hear footsteps. Nicolò’s footsteps on the tile floor, slowly moving across the room, rising out of the sea of darkness, and into his bed. He listens for seconds, minutes, an eternity maybe, but those footsteps never come. Yusuf lays back down, the rope lattice underneath the mattress creaking quietly, and sighs. He wonders if Nicolò is asleep, at least until he hears a whispered, “Good night, Yusuf.”

“...Good night, Nicolò.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I really loved writing Yusuf’s story as well and hope I did a little justice to the rich Islamic tradition of storytelling.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf arrives back home and finds that he has changed more than home has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember y’all, all of the fully Italicized lines are in Arabic! There’s a lot of them in this chapter and going forward!
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter and a few new characters 👀

* * *

They set sail from Alexandria the next morning and Yusuf revels in the way Nicolò _glows_.

Glows like this is his true home, like he enjoys nothing more than being on the open water. Though they’ve booked passage as travelers, Nicolò surprises him and happily volunteers to hoist sails and let his fingers find their home around lengths of rope. It is a gift, to see the the muscles of his forearms as they put in the heavy work, the way the wind whips Nicolò’s long hair across his face.

Yusuf watches from the bow of the ship, his mind at a loss for words. There’s poetry at the tip of his tongue, but it is less prose and more melody. Notes of a song for his ears, his soul, and no longer mere words on a page.

The Genoan does not converse with the men on the ship, still has not picked up any Arabic, but seemed to be able to follow along with the orders shouted from the captain as long as there is a frantic hand motion to go with it. _“He is a fine sailor,”_ the captain says to Yusuf with a laugh as they watch Nicolò climb the mast with ease. _“Where did you find this one?”_

 _“In Jerusalem,”_ Yusuf replies, trying not to sound as fond as he feels. _“We have travelled a long journey.”_

_“And where is the end of the journey for you and your friend?”_

He glances up at the sails and bites back a grin when he sees Nicolò’s bright eyes watching him from the skies. _“Home.”_

The cabin is tight but warm, beds draped in soft linen. Yusuf lounges on his bunk, watching Nicolò pace endlessly around the cabin. “I have not felt this alive in years, Yusuf,” the man says, hands moving as quickly as his words. “I wish I had never been sent to the Church as a boy. I should have been sailing for my entire life, not just on the way to the Holy Lands.” His face is on the verge of a smile, like the calm seas before the storm. “I have missed out on so much of my life and cannot bear to miss any more.”

“And now you do not have the weight of the church on your mind or soul,” Yusuf says, longlimbs stretching across the mattress. “It should be a much more fulfilling eternity for you.”

The elation melts from Nicolò’s face as quickly as it had come. Something darker replaces it, something full of worry and humiliation. “Do you think I will ever be able to atone for the things I have done?” he asks, hands clenching into fists at his side. “For all the lies I had so easily believed?”

Yusuf brow knits together and he shakes his head. “What lies?”

“Lies about people like you—that you were demons sent to test our love of God. That killing you would bring me a place in heaven.” Nicolò says, sitting on the bunk next to him. Yusuf pulls his legs close to his body to make space and the Genoan looks at him defeatedly. “What the priests and bishop said about the kind of boy I was, that flagellating myself would bring me peace, that I was worthless. I believed it all just because I was told.”

“I do not think you are worthless,” Yusuf murmurs, reaching a hand out and resting it on Nicolò’s thigh. His heart beats hard and fast against the inside of his chest, rising steadily toward the bottom of his throat. His fingers dig into the soft fabric, the firm muscle beneath, and their eyes meet. “And I pray you do not believe it any longer.”

Nicolò’s hand dips the mattress between them as he leans in just the slightest inch. Their faces are so close that, even in the dim light of the cabin, Yusuf can see the ring of silver around blown-black pupils across from him.

In any other life, it would be so easy.

So easy to just curl a tender hand around the back of Nicolò’s neck and tangle fingers through his long, silken hair. So easy to pull the younger man forward and let their mouths meet in perfect harmony. A single moment’s silence when Yusuf lets every doubt he has about Nicolò fade into obscurity.

But this is the life he has. The life where, no matter how much he wants to deny that the man across from him is different, Yusuf cannot have Nicolò. Cannot have this Pilgrim in every way that he so desperately desires. So he does not kiss Nicolò. Only reaches out his free hand and tucks the loose hair that has fallen free from the leather tie back behind his ear. Yusuf’s fingers brush against Nicolò’s cheek and his heart skips a beat when the younger man’s eyes flutter shut contentedly.

“You are the reason,” Nicolò whispers, soft as a breath, “that I no longer believe it.”

~~~

It becomes a dance—much like their old one—with a push and a pull and a chase.

But this time, it does not end in death. It breathes life with every moment Yusuf catches Nicolò staring at him from across the boat, in every moment they spend talking late into the night, tucked together in Yusuf’s bunk. The dance blooms as their shoulders and knees brush against one another, undeterred by the waves against the hull.

Then, finally, after almost seven days, Yusuf sees the familiar sight.

The rectangular port that he has set sail from so many times before. The limestone walls that he and Imran used to climb together. The familiar smell of the waves against the sandstone beaches. _Home_.

It must be written all over his face, because Nicolò leans in close and asks, “Is this your home?”

Yusuf nods, his wide grin splitting his face, and says, “This is Mahdia.”

The city has grown in the six years since he’s been gone, but the streets are familiar, the markets are familiar, and it finally settles some missing piece inside his heart that has been gone for so long. Nicolò stays close by his side—face veiled but sharp eyes taking in all the sights and sounds of the bustling market. “How far is your family’s house?” he asks as they pass the mosque.

“It is not too far. Just the other side of the city.” Yusuf turns them around a corner and stops at a familiar sweets shop. “Wait here, I am going to get a treat for my sisters,” he says, his hand on Nicolò’s elbow. “I will not be long.”

The corners of the Genoan’s eyes crinkle with a hidden grin and Yusuf does not shield his own as it washes across his mouth. He slips into the shop and immediately feels his heart drop into his stomach at the familiar smile that greets him.

 _“Fati?”_ he breathes incredulously.

Fatimah’s eyes are wide as she rushes to hug him, his arms coming around her waist just like old times. _“We all thought you were gone when your letters stopped,”_ she says, voice shaking like she still cannot believe he is real. She pulls away and cups his cheeks between her hands. _“It is_ so _good to see your face, Yusuf.”_

 _“You have not aged a single day,”_ he hums, kissing one of her palms tenderly. There’s so much history he cannot deny and he has missed her as much as she has missed him. _“Have you been well? Have you seen my mother recently?”_

 _“I stopped by to see her a few weeks ago. She is going to be so thrilled when she sees you.”_ Fatimah lets him go and immediately gathers baklava and ghrayba into a small container. _“I still cannot believe you have come home, Yusuf. It feels like an eternity since you left.”_ Her dark eyes meet his and Yusuf’s smile fades at the edges. _“It has not been the same here, without you.”_

 _“You know why I had to leave, Fati,”_ he says, voice low. _“I would have stayed if I could.”_

_“That does not mean your absence was not noted.”_

The silence descends between them and Yusuf knows he should be begging for her forgiveness. He had apologized so many times before he left but the undeniable fact was that he had sailed off from the port with Fatimah in tears. There will always be some guilt left in his heart for what he had done to her, even if it was better for both of them. Yusuf sighs quietly and murmurs, _“In another life, you would have come with me. Forgive me for not becoming the husband you so deserved.”_

 _“There is nothing to forgive. The past is the past and you are finally home,”_ Fatimah says, setting the container down and taking one of his hands in hers. _“Allah has kept you safe in the fighting and brought you back to us.”_ She squeezes his fingers and there’s a wistful smile on her face. _“I do not wish to keep you from your family, but I pray you will not make yourself as scarce as you have been.”_

Yusuf curls his free hand around the back of her head, fingers tangling in her scarf, and presses his lips to her forehead. _“You are my family as well, Fati. If you are able, it would please me greatly if you could join us for dinner.”_

 _“I will try my best to come, Yusuf. Give my best to your mother and the girls.”_ Fatimah finally lets him go, allows him to back away from her, and there’s little relief in his heart when she does. She tilts her head toward the sweets and says, _“And do not forget these. Zaafira will be so disappointed if you do.”_

He takes the container and holds it close. _“You have always been too good to me.”_

Her bright smile illuminates the small shop as Yusuf slips out through the doorway.

Nicolò is pacing anxiously in the street and stops when he sees Yusuf. There’s betrayal in his eyes, hot and burning and full of unbridled rage, but his veiled face hides his true hurt. “Who is she?” he says, the calm in his voice cracking around spitted syllables. “The woman in the shop.”

“Her name is Fatimah. She is very dear to me, Nicolò,” Yusuf says firmly. “Not all of us left nothing behind when we went to war.”

“If you had a wife you loved so much, you should not have left her in the first place,” Nicolò snaps, ripping the fabric free from his face. His jaw clenches, lips curling, and Yusuf feels a rush of cold air run down his spine. “How could you so easily leave someone you love, Yusuf?”

The knot in his heart loosens and Yusuf breathes out a laugh. “My _wife_? You think I would leave my wife for _six years_?” he asks gently. Nicolò’s icy facade cracks as his eyes turn glassy. “Fatimah is not my wife, though she would have been if I had been a better man.” Yusuf tightens his grip on the container in his hand and motions to the end of the street. “If you walk with me, I will explain myself.”

Nicolò’s anger does not recede, but he relents, falling in step with Yusuf as they continue their journey.

“I have known Fatimah since we were young,” he explains as they wind their way through crowded streets. “She and her family lived close to us. We spent much time together as children and were very close as we got older. I knew she loved me and I cared deeply for her as well. Our parents agreed to a match and we had plans to be wed.” Yusuf remembers that day so clearly, how elated he felt, how right it all seemed. “But the more real it became, the more I realized I could not give Fatimah everything she deserved. I loved her, but did not love her as a husband should.”

“You did not keep your promise to her.”

He shakes his head, shame tightening his throat. “Two weeks before the wedding, we went to the sea, far from our parents’ watchful eyes.” A trembling breath falls from his mouth and Yusuf scrubs a hand over his face. “I made love to her. I gave her myself and took everything in return. The next day I told Fati I could not marry her and set sail with my brother that night. I have never felt more shame than I did in that moment, Nicolò.”

The other man’s face tightens and Yusuf feels like he’s being watched by a predator. As if Nicolò is a hawk, just waiting to strike. “You do not seem like a man who would do such a thing…” he whispers.

“I was not always the man I am now,” Yusuf mutters, chest heavy. “I loved her in my mind but not my heart or soul. I thought…I thought that if I shared that with her, that it would make my love for her whole. When it did not, I felt nothing but despair at what I had taken from her. I could not spend the rest of our lives lying to her. My shame overwhelmed me and I could not face the consequences of my actions.” He looks at Nicolò, the back of his throat burning with held-back tears. “It is why I stayed away so long—the thought of seeing Fatimah’s face and hearing her forgive me, even if she truly had not, was too much to bear.”

They turn down an empty street and Nicolò stops suddenly. Yusuf comes to a halt in front of him and cannot read the Genoan’s expression. “In the shop...” Nicolò begins slowly, hesitantly, like the words have not yet come to him. “When she saw you again, did she forgive you?”

A sharp breath punches its way out of his chest and he shakes his head. “Worse,” Yusuf says, voice breaking. “She said there was nothing to forgive.”

Nicolò’s face does not change, but there is a shadow that covers his eyes, snuffing out any light that was there. He nods stiffly and covers his face once more, muttering, “We should go. Your family is waiting.”

~~~

He stops the moment he smells jasmine.

It wafts through the air like the sweetest perfume and Yusuf stops at the end of the walk. His home is just as he left it, whitewashed walls glowing in the dimming sun. The jasmine bushes in the front are in full bloom and, beneath their scent, he can smell the rich aroma of spice and cooking meat. A smile crosses his face when he sees a young woman pass by the doorway and catch sight of him.

Her mouth falls open, eyes growing wide, and an ecstatic shriek tears from her throat as she runs through the doorway and across the courtyard. _“Yusuf!”_ she screams, throwing herself into his arms.

He barely catches the girl, his belongings falling to the dirt, and cannot hold back the laugh that falls from him. _“My sweetest Noor,”_ Yusuf says, petting her hair, _“I have missed you so, so dearly.”_ He looks up to see his mother standing in the doorway, brought by the commotion, and cannot hold back his tears. Noor finally release him enough for him to take a few steps to the shocked woman in the doorway. _“Mama,”_ Yusuf breathes, tears running down his cheeks as he falls to his knees in front of her. He takes her trembling hands in his and kisses her palms, saltwater staining her fingers. _“Forgive me for not coming home to you sooner.”_

His mother sinks down with him and Yusuf can barely meet her bloodshot eyes. She pulls her hands free of his and cups his face, placing as many kisses as she can to his cheeks and forehead. _“All that matters,”_ his mother whispers tearfully, _“is that you are home now.”_

The joy in his heart turns to grief and what little strength he has held onto falls from his grasp. A sob bubbles up from his throat and Yusuf buries his face in his mother’s shoulder, letting all those years of yearning for home flow free. There is little more he has desired since he left than finally being able to see his family and now, he can barely face them at all.

The weight lifts when he finally settles his breathing, falling back to sit on his heels. His mother wipes the tears from his face and smiles wearily at him. _“No more weeping,”_ she whispers. _“Now is the time for joy.”_

 _“Yusuf!”_ Noor calls, arms full of his fallen belongings. She looks at Nicolò with curious glee and grins wildly. _“Who did you bring home with you? Where is Imran?”_ The tears rise again and her smile falls from her face. _“Yusuf? Where is Imran?”_

His mother’s hand tightens around his and she knows. There is no way she could not know. But still, his brother deserves the respect Yusuf can give. _“He fell in the battle,”_ he murmurs, looking between his mother and sister. _“I tried to protect him, truly. Forgive me for failing him.”_

 _“Was he buried with honor?”_ his mother asks, words thick with grief. He nods, unable to meet her eyes, and hears her sigh. _“Then that is all I could hope for. He is with your father in Jannah now, Inshallah.”_

Yusuf helps her to her feet and lets his mother slip her arm through his elbow like she used to do when he was a young boy. Back when things were simple. _“Mama,”_ he says, motioning at Nicolò, _“this is my friend, Nicolò. He has traveled with me from the Holy Lands.”_ Nicolò slowly unveils his face, revealing his pale skin to the setting sun, and Yusuf has to hold his mother tight to keep her from backing away. _“It is alright, Mama. I trust this one. I believe he is different from the men who share his skin.”_

She looks at him warily. _“But Yusuf—”_

 _“He has treated me with kindness. I would see him treated the same.”_ A small smile pulls on his face when Nicolò bows awkwardly, making Noor giggle. His mother’s face softens but her grip on his arm remains firm. Yusuf kisses her temple gently and whispers, _“He has nowhere else to go, Mama. I could not send him away.”_

She regards Nicolò tentatively before letting out a short humph. _“Fine, but you are responsible for him, Yusuf,”_ his mother says, that familiar glint in her eye. _“And I expect to see him helping around the house.”_

He laughs loudly and a flash of worry spreads across Nicolò’s face. Yusuf holds a hand up, reassuring him, “Do not worry. She will allow you to stay with us.” He turns back to his mother and sister. _“Where are Jala and Zaafi? Are they not here?”_

 _“Zaafira went with Jala to the market to help with the babies,”_ Noor pipes up as they return to the house.

Yusuf stumbles to a stop, warmth blossoming through his heart. _“Babies?”_ he breathes quietly. _“Jala is a mother now?”_

His mother goes back to the fire and says, _“You have missed much happening at home, son. Jala married the shepherd’s son, Omar, four years ago. Sohail was born after and baby Fareeha came just last year.”_ Yusuf sits on one of the low cushions by the fire and takes it all in. His mother glances back at him, her dark eyes glittering from the firelight. _“It has brought us much joy, though I do wish you would have been first to give me a grandchild.”_

He scoffs gently. _“Again with this, Mama? Would you rather have me be like Baba and not see my own children grow?”_

_“I would have seen you stay here, with Fatimah, but you chose differently.”_

Out of the corner of his eye, Yusuf can see Nicolò’s head turn at Fatimah’s name, the one word the Genoan can pick out of his mother’s speech. There is that darkness in his face that was present outside the shop and Yusuf refuses to admit how much it looks like jealousy. _“What happened between Fatimah and I is now in the past,”_ he says as his mother brushes flour from her skirt. _“I did see her today though. I asked her to come eat with us tonight.”_

His mother’s eyes go wide and hopeful. _“Of course,”_ she says quickly. _“Of course, she is always welcome here.”_

Yusuf scrubs his hands over his face and sighs. He knows what his mother wants of him, knows what she would so desperately ask of him if he could give her the answer she desired. To marry. To father children. This was a life he gave up years ago and now, with his immortality, it has ceased to even be a far off hope. How could he love someone, find a family, only to leave them all behind to death?

“Yusuf?” Nicolò’s voice pulls him from his impending sorrows and he looks up at the other man, still holding what little belongings he has. “Is there somewhere I may put my things?”

He lets free the breath he had been holding and mutters, “Yes, I’m sorry, I’ve been a terrible host.” Yusuf leads Nicolò through the halls and up the stairs, Nicolò’s footsteps nearly silent behind him. The cool breeze flows through the open-air riad and into the open archways of the second story. It smells of lemon blossoms—his mother’s tree in full bloom.

The door to his room sticks as it always has and some part of Yusuf’s heart sinks into his stomach when he realizes his mother has not changed a single thing since he and Imran left. As if she had prayed they would not be gone as long as they had been.

Yusuf moves books from the table, freeing the space, before sitting on the edge of his bed. Nicolò looks around at the furnishings but does not move to set anything down. “You shared this room with your brother, did you not?”

“When I was young, then again when my father died and I came back to my home,” he says quietly, fingers spreading across the linen sheets. “I never should have left.”

Nicolò looks as if he is about to speak, but chooses to remain silent instead. He sets his sword against the table and eases his pack down onto Imran’s bed.

It is such an innocent thing, really—a stranger’s belongings on his brother’s bed. But something terrible sparks inside Yusuf’s heart and he flies into a sharp, unexpected rage. He stands quickly, shoving Nicolò away and tearing the man’s pack from the bed. Nicolò’s belongings spill from the bag as Yusuf tosses it, shouting, “That is my brother’s bed! Do not presume to put your things wherever you’d like; this is not your home!”

Nicolò backs up against the wall, stammering, “I-I meant no offense, Yusuf.”

“It is because of men like you that Imran is not here to—” The sharp edge of his anger cuts deep into his chest and all that spills forth is grief. “He was only thirteen when we left,” Yusuf chokes through gritted teeth. His vision goes blurry and Nicolò looks as struck as Yusuf feels. “Imran was thirteen and I dragged him from that bed to sail with me. My brother is dead because I could not bear the thought of being alone.”

The room is so quiet that all he can hear is his own heavy breathing and the pounding of blood in his ears. Nicolò’s voice is soft when he finally speaks, humming, “It was not your fault, Yusuf. It was not your blade that struck your brother down.”

“It just as well may have been my own!” he barks, his edges shattering. He can feel himself cracking—falling—and there’s nothing he can do. The room closes in on him and he cannot breathe. His hand catches on the frame of Imran’s bed to keep himself from collapsing but it is not enough. It will never be enough.

Yusuf breaks.

The first sob catches him off guard, like a blow to the face that he did not see coming. His knees shake and he stumbles back bewilderedly, desperate for any kind of escape. He has cried before, has wept for his brother many times over, but not like this. Never like this. Nicolò inadvertently blocks his path to the door and Yusuf will not let this man see him weak.

Nicolò’s voice is small, soft—worried—as he whispers, “Yusuf…”

He is hiccuping, as if unable to catch hold of his breath; he is drowning in this and cannot find air. But still, his teeth gnash and Yusuf snarls, “Leave me!”

“No.”

It comes out much like Nicolò’s being—calm and firm and unyielding. Yusuf shudders through another grief-stricken sob and would give the world to be anywhere else but here. “L-Leave me…” he begs again, more beaten than before.

“I will not,” the other man repeats, taking a step toward him. “I am sorry your brother is gone, but I am _not_.” Nicolò’s hand reaches across the divide to Yusuf—a lifeline in this storm. “You are my _friend_ , Yusuf. You did not abandon me to my despair and I will not abandon you to yours.”

Yusuf does not take his hand, will not take it, but allows him to sink to the floor as well, palm steady against the trembling muscle of his shoulder. Allows the other man to exist in this terrible moment where Yusuf’s head slips under water—this moment where Nicolò willingly drowns alongside him.

It takes minutes, hours it seems, for his sobs to recede. Yusuf’s entire body aches, from his heart to his head and every bit in between, but nothing burns hotter than the skin beneath Nicolò’s hand. He shudders through a broken breath and the younger man’s hand is the only thing holding him upright. “Please…” he begs weakly, ashamedly meeting Nicolò’s eyes. “Please do not think me weak…”

“I would not think you weak,” Nicolò murmurs, gentle and reassuring. “Not for a single moment.”

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf finds that Nicolò may not feel as at home as he hopes

* * *

The night becomes a blur.

After being sent to retrieve their sisters, Noor returns with Jala and Zaafira and Yusuf struggles to keep from shedding tears again when he sees his oldest sister, now a woman in her own right. Her mouth falls open and it is as if she is seeing a ghost—as if she cannot believe he is standing in front of her. Yusuf’s throat feels tight as he takes a step toward her. _“Jala, I have missed you so—”_

Her face flushes red with anger as she crosses the room to him and slaps him hard across the face, quick as a viper. Bright, sharp pain blossoms through his cheek, ringing through his jaw and skull. _“How dare you!”_ Jala hisses, tears in her dark eyes. _“How dare you leave us as you did, Yusuf.”_ Her voice sounds more hurt than angry and he wishes he could do anything to soothe her rage. _“You abandoned your family for six years and you stand in front of me as if you feel no regret in doing so!”_

She moves to strike him again and he catches her wrist, halting her motion. _“My shame is greater than you know, Jala,”_ he says as she turns her head away from him. _“Inshallah, I pray you will find it in your heart to someday forgive me.”_

Jala rips herself from his grasp and storms off down the hall without another word, much to Yusuf’s heartbreak.

But nothing, nothing, hurts more than seeing Zaafira, his youngest sister, hide behind his mother’s back. He crouches down in front of her, voice soft as he asks, _“Do you remember who I am?”_ The girl shakes her head, her wide eyes showing fear that should never have been there. She was three years old the last time Yusuf saw her, barely more than a toddling babe, and now she was almost as old as Noor was six years ago. Yusuf holds out the box of sweets and murmurs, _“My name is Yusuf. I’m your brother.”_

There is a flash of recognition at his name, like Zaafira has heard it often in his absence. She warily takes the treats and offers him a smile. _“If you are truly my brother, then I am glad you are home,”_ she says, so politely it reminds him so much of Imran. Zaafira has no memories of either of them and it breaks his heart to realize she will never make more of the brother they’ve lost.

Noor, on the other hand, is far less polite. She circles Nicolò like a lion on a hunt, mouth quirked into a sharp, biting smirk, eyes ablaze. _“Does he speak our language?”_ she asks, leering far too close in Nicolò’s face for either his or Yusuf’s liking. _“He is_ so _handsome, even for a Catholic.”_

 _“He does not speak our tongue, but Mama does, so mind yourself,”_ he warns.

She feigns a pout and rolls her eyes. _“Mama does not let me out of the house, not after Asim came calling last year.”_

Yusuf’s eyebrows raise. _“Asim the tanner’s boy?”_ Noor’s eyes glitter and he shakes his head at her with an exasperated laugh. _“It is no wonder she has not let you out of the house. That boy is beneath you.”_

Noor turns back to Nicolò, who has the mind to take a step back from her, and flashes a deadly smile. _“Is that why you have brought this man home with you? To find me a suitable match?”_

 _“You are insufferable,”_ Yusuf says, dragging her away from the other man. _“Go help Mama before I send you to your room myself.”_ He pinches her side and does not hide a grin when a yelp escapes her. After much exasperation, Noor stalks off back toward the kitchen, leaving the two men alone once more. Yusuf shakes his head and mutters, “I apologize for my sister. She means no harm, I swear to you.”

Nicolò’s sapphire eyes are full of panic as he croaks, “The way she looked at me did not seem harmless.”

“Noor is sixteen years old and finds you very handsome, Nicolò,” he laughs. The other man’s cheeks flush pink and Yusuf puts a careful hand on his shoulder. “Forgive her, but she thinks herself far more amusing than she actually is.”

They walk through the gardens outside and Yusuf watches Nicolò dutifully—watches the way his arms cross tight over his chest and his eyes are constantly on alert. This is familiar, this is home, but the knowledge that the Genoan is a stranger in this land is not lost on him. Yusuf has been here before—in Greece, in Genoa, in France, in Sardinia—left without a common word spoken. He had adapted quickly out of sheer necessity after losing his father, learning as many languages as he could to keep the business afloat, but he cannot assume it will be the same for Nicolò.

“I hope you are not regretting your choice to join me here,” Yusuf offers quietly. Their footsteps are soft against the stone path as they make their way through the grounds. “This cannot be easy for you.”

They pass an olive tree, planted long before his father was even born, and Nicolò stops beneath the branches. “Your family is showing me great kindness by taking me in,” he says, not meeting Yusuf’s eyes. “I would not speak ill of them.”

“That is not the question I asked you, Nicolò. I asked if, now that you have seen what my home is like, you still wished to stay.”

The sun finally dips below the horizon, the skies to the far east awash in a deep, hazy blue. Nicolò’s pale skin and bright eyes seem to glow in the creeping darkness, soft as silk, and his voice is just as bated as he says, “I do wish to stay, Yusuf, and not only for the fact that I have nowhere else to go.” His throat is so dry that Yusuf can hear it audibly click and Nicolò turns back to the path in front of them. “I wish to stay because you are here.”

Yusuf’s heart skips and, quicker than a flash, he reaches out and catches the younger man’s wrist. Nicolò stops but does not turn back to him. “What do you mean by that?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper as his grip tightens. “Speak truthfully.”

The first stars appear in the sky and reflect in the silver-blue of Nicolò’s eyes as he finally comes round, never pulling away from Yusuf’s hand. His jaw clenches and he shakes his head in a stiff, short manner. “I mean that you are my friend, Yusuf,” Nicolò murmurs. “I know we have not known each other long, but I consider you my closest companion. I pray you think of me the same.”

Neither of them move, neither of them speak. What words could follow such a statement as this? Yusuf’s thumb finds the tender space of Nicolo’s pulse, feels it race under his skin. He tries to steady his breathing and lets the only thing that is in his heart and mind fall from his mouth. “You are dear to me as well, Nicolò,” he says, earnest in his half-truth, and is graced with a restrained, guarded smile from the other man. Nicolo’s free hand reaches for his own and the words, _“More dear than you know,”_ come spilling out in Arabic before Yusuf can even stop himself.

And just like that, the moment is gone.

Nicolò’s face falls and his mouth twists into a frown as he rips his wrist free from Yusuf’s hold. “And yet you continue to keep a whole world away from me through your words,” he spits through clenched teeth.

His footsteps echo in the garden as Nicolò turns on his heel and heads back to the house, leaving Yusuf completely and utterly alone.

~~~

There’s a spread of meat and bread and olives and vegetables already on the table when they return.

Fatimah has also arrived in their absence as well and greets Yusuf with a coy smile, hidden from his mother’s watchful eye. Her gaze flits to Nicolò and he wonders how much she has been told of the man. Fatimah glances over her shoulder at Noor and whispers through a grin, _“You are right, he is_ very _handsome.”_

 _“You two sicken me,”_ Jala says as she sets a pitcher of wine on the table, Fareeha on her hip. _“That man is a foreigner in our home.”_

 _“That man is our guest,”_ Yusuf shoots back sternly, taking a seat on the floor cushion at the head of the table. _“And, if I remember correctly, Jala, you no longer live here.”_

She glares at both him and Nicolò in quick succession. _“The farther from him the better. I would not sleep well with him under the same roof,”_ she snaps quietly, sitting next to him. Nicolò silently takes the seat across the table from her, on Yusuf’s right hand, and tucks his hands in his lap, eyes down. But Jala does not settle at the Genoan’s passive mood, not even when Sohail drops down next to Nicolò. _“Yallah—come sit by your sister and I, Sohail,”_ she says, motioning to the spot next to her.

The boy shakes his head and grins up at Nicolò. _“No, Mama, I want to sit by Uncle Yusuf’s friend.”_

Nicolò glances at Sohail out of the corner of his eye and cannot stop the corner of his mouth from turning up to the heavens as the young boy beams widely at him. Yusuf lets out a hearty laugh and motions to his sweet-as-honey nephew. _“See, Jala, even your son has a softer heart than you.”_

His eldest sister’s sour mood lightens during dinner, but only just. Yusuf settles back, eating his fill of familiar familiar foods and finding great amusement at Nicolò’s reigned in adjustment to the spices in the dishes. The man’s face twists and flushes at the flavor as Nicolò coughs into his fist. “It is good, but tastes sharp,” Nicolò chokes, reaching for his wine.

“You will come to appreciate the beauty of spice in good time, Nicolò,” Yusuf says, handing over bread. “It pains me that you have been deprived of such joy in your life.”

 _“Does he not like the food?”_ his mother asks worriedly.

 _“No, no, Mama, he is just unused to it. It is different from the food he has at home,”_ he reassures her. _“He is from Genoa, one of the ports Baba and I frequented. Nicolò formerly was a priest—a holy man like the imam at the mosque.”_

 _“And yet you met in the Siege of Jerusalem?”_ Fatimah asks softly, finally bringing up what the rest of his family has avoided. The war he has endured and the fact that he has brought one of the invaders home with him. _“Your friendship must be quite the tale.”_ The table goes quiet and Yusuf’s family looks at him—watching, waiting.

But there is no explanation, no story he can weave out of thin air, that would make any of this make sense. The smell of burning bodies, the feeling of blood on his hands, the pain of a sword through his stomach—all of it is still too fresh in his mind to let anyone else bear the weight as well. Yusuf shakes his head and takes a long sip of his wine before muttering, _“I do not wish to speak of the fighting.”_

_“But Yusuf—”_

His palm slams down on the table, rattling the glasses and dishes, and shouts, _“I will not speak of it!”_ Zaafira and Sohail jump and a flash of worry spreads across his mother’s face. His chest heaves and the shame floods his mouth like bitter ash. Yusuf can feel the tears bite at his eyes, the lump in his throat growing so large that he cannot swallow, and suddenly cannot face his family anymore.

His knee cracks on the low table, startling everyone again as he rises quickly. Nicolò’s fingertips brush the delicate bones in his wrist, as if he wishes to catch Yusuf and put a halt to this whole affair, but the younger man makes no move to chase him when he stumbles to the front door.

The walls tighten and he feels like his home is shrinking. Yusuf can hear his name shouted behind him but the blood in his ears is too loud to distinguish whether or not it is his sisters, his mother, or Nicolò. He prays for the latter, prays the Genoan will find him and ease his storm.

The crushing weight in his chest does not lift even as he falls outside. His skin is three sizes too small, lungs threatening to break through his aching ribs, and his hands tremble so badly that he cannot even bring them to cover his face. This was a mistake, coming back home. How could he face his family after everything he has done. Leaving, taking his brother with him, letting Imran fall in a battle Yusuf never even wanted to participate in to begin with. Bringing someone like Nicolò into his home and expecting the same care from his family that Yusuf felt for the man.

Selfish. All if it, so _selfish_.

After what feels like hours pass, Jala finds him sitting in the garden underneath the olive tree, the fabric of her dress gently sweeping the ground as she approaches him. _“Mama is wondering when you will return,”_ she says, kneeling silently in front of him. Even in the dark light of the waning moon, Yusuf can see the worry on his eldest sister’s face. He struggles to meet her eyes as she reaches for his hand and whispers, voice worn thin, _“Why do you keep running from us, Yusuf?”_

He shakes his head, throat so tight the words cannot escape him. The first tear cuts down his cheek like a knife and death would be more welcomed than this. _“I am ashamed,”_ he chokes. _“I am ashamed at everything, Jala. Who I was when I left, who I am now that I am home.”_

 _“You are my brother,”_ she says, putting her anger aside for the briefest of moments. _“You fought your way back to us and there is no shame in that, Yusuf.”_

 _“I did not wish to fight.”_ It comes out in a rushing breath and it is the first time he has admitted it to anyone. Jala’s hand tightens around his but she does not pull away from him as Yusuf hangs his head. _“I wanted to run the moment we got word that the Crusaders were coming. But Imran could not leave the city. He said we had a responsibility to protect those that could not protect themselves. He was only nineteen years old and yet was more a man than I.”_

His sister’s brow knits together and her voice is worn as she asks, _“It was Imran? All this time?”_

 _“I left after I had buried him, Jala. I cannot forget the smoke and the stench and the feeling of blood on my hands and every time I look at you and Noor and Zaafi I am reminded that Imran fell in that horrible place.”_ Yusuf’s shoulders shake and he worries a hole in his cheek open with his teeth, copper flooding across his tongue. _“This is why it pains me so much to speak of the battle.”_

Jala nods, understanding his heartbreak. This was something they could not come back from, but something that could be patched with enough time, as if filling in broken patches in the road back home. She lets out a soft sigh and stands, tugging on his fingers. _“Come, Yusuf. There is no reason to hide yourself out here any longer.”_

The room is quiet when they return, Noor, Zaafira, and Fatimah speaking softly amongst themselves. Yusuf’s breath catches when his mother reaches for his hand, kissing his scarred knuckles gently. Nicolò has his head down, still aimlessly picking at his food, and does not meet his eyes when Yusuf takes his seat beside him once more. Their knees brush together under the table and the slightest flush appears on Nicolò’s cheeks.

The war is not mentioned again.

~~~

Time grows soft and languid and Yusuf finds himself pacing—caged in after so many nights spent under the stars with Nicolò—while the rest of his family gathers around the fire.

It is hard not to notice the way Nicolò chooses to play with Sohail and Fareeha instead of gathering near Yusuf’s sisters and mother. The gentle way he follows the boy’s pointing and rapid fire directions of _“No, not like that! This way!”_ when Nicolò fails to make the appropriate noises for the carved wooden animals they have strewn along the ground.

“Is it a horse or an elephant?” Nicolò asks, eyes lighting up as he gesticulates between the figurines with one hand, the other arm full of a half-asleep baby Fareeha. Sohail looks at him, confused, and he stops for a moment, thinking. Nicolò makes a trunk with his arm, hanging it by his nose, and a disgruntled look crosses his face when the boy laughs at him. “Not an elephant?” he asks again. “Horse?”

Sohail nickers and lets out a wild of cackle when Nicolò repeats the sound back at him.

 _“Sohail, hush, your sister is almost asleep,”_ Jala says, draped over one of benches across the room. Her voice snaps Yusuf out of his stupor, out of the fixed gaze he has found himself in. He sits across from his eldest sister and tries not to shrink at the resentful look she is giving him. _“I still do not trust that one, Yusuf,”_ she says quietly, out of earshot of their mother.

 _“Do you not see him with your children, Jala?”_ he says, his eyes drifting back over to the Genoan. Fareeha has finally drifted off and Nicolò shifts her more carefully in his arm, his large hand spreading across her back as her face tucks into his chest.

 _“I see him,”_ she mutters, reaching for her glass. _“But that makes no change in my trust.”_

Yusuf laughs lightly and kicks at her knee with his foot. _“You were not always so cynical, sister.”_

 _“Keeping this family alive in your absence has made me so,”_ Jala snaps, refusing to look at him. He can see the tears in her eyes, glittering from the candlelight. Her fingers tighten around the glass so tightly he is sure that she will shatter it. _“You do not understand how hard it was here, without you, without Baba, without Imran. And then you bring home that man, allow him to hold my child, and chastise me for not greeting him as warmly as you wish?”_

 _“I wish for you to not wallow in the past,”_ he says, reaching for her arm. Her muscles are tense under his hand and his sister finally, begrudgingly, meets his eyes. _“I am home and I am not leaving you again.”_

 _“If you do decide to leave again,”_ a voice behind him says, Fatimah’s hand coming to rest on his shoulder, _“I shall never hear the last of it.”_ Yusuf shifts in his seat, back straightening as she rounds the couch and sits far too close to him. He can smell Fatimah’s perfume—the warm spice of her hair oil—can feel it rub off on his clothes as she touches his arm.

His skin crawls and he turns back to watch Nicolò.

The younger man is far too engrossed in the menagerie that the three year old is setting up before him to realize Yusuf is watching, absentmindedly running his fingers through Fareeha’s loose curls. It’s a tender motion, one of almost hesitation, and some thought in Yusuf’s head swirls around, imagining Nicolò as a father in his own right.

_“Yusuf?”_

He blinks, turning to Jala. She has been speaking to him—he’s sure of it—though he hasn’t heard a single word. He scrubs a hand over his face and sighs, _“I am sorry,”_ he mutters. _“It has been a long day.”_

Fatimah’s fingers brush his hair from his face, from his neck, and her nails gently scratch the base of his scalp. _“You should rest, then,”_ she hums, soft as a song. Yusuf’s brow pinches together and his chest tightens under her touch. If he had made the right choices in his life, this would have been all he wanted, all he needed. His home. His family. Fatimah. But now all he can think about, as the woman next to him continues her attempts at soothing him, is the man sitting barely a length away from him.

Nicolò’s head tilts to Yusuf, his silver eyes turning to pure gold in the fire’s light, and there is that bright flicker of jealousy that he cannot imagine away.

The Genoan’s pupils glow black as the night sky and Yusuf’s breathing becomes shallow as he realizes that Nicolò is not watching him at all. His pale eyes are trained only on Fatimah, on her hands, on the tender smile on her face and the undeniable longing in her eyes.

Yusuf’s fingers tighten around his knees and his blood alights.

There is no anger and he wishes there was. Anger would be better than this. Rage or lust or hatred or any emotion other than the absolute despaired heartbreak that floods from Nicolò’s face. It seeps from every pore, every inch of the man’s face as he stares at Fatimah unforgivingly. Yusuf doesn’t know how long it takes, how quickly the unbearable words rise from his throat, but he finally cannot allow it to go on any longer.

“Please,” he says in their common tongue. Nicolò’s eyes meet his in a flash and Jala and Fatimah freeze as well. Yusuf shakes his head and pleads, “No more, Nicolò. Be at peace with Fatimah. _Please_.”

“Begging,” Nicolò spits quietly, turning back to Sohail and the toys before him. “It is unbecoming of you, Yusuf.” The baby in his arm stirs and he smoothes his hand gently over her cheek. “I want nothing from that woman.”

If Yusuf could strike him, he would. Strike Nicolò for even daring to speak to him in that way. But the words bury themselves so deeply into his heart, sharp and bloody as a freshly hewn blade, that he can do nothing but let his shoulders sag in defeat.

Fatimah’s thumb brushes over the corner of his jaw and he cannot will himself to look at her when she asks, _“Is everything all right, Yusuf?”_ He nods and knows she does not believe him. They have been too close for too long for her to not see through every lie the moment it comes from his mouth. Her amber eyes search his and Yusuf finds himself praying she cannot read his mind as she once could.

He reaches for the wine on the table and hopes to find solace at the bottom of a glass.

Yusuf does not find his peace, only more longing, it seems. He sinks into his seat, face flushed from far too much wine, arms tight across his chest and his legs spread. Jala, Fatimah, and his mother are gossiping quietly about people in town—catching up from the few weeks they have not seen each other—while Noor curls up, half asleep in a chair by the riad.

Sohail has quieted down, settling against Nicolò’s leg and resting his head on the man’s thigh. The Genoan’s eyelids grow heavy as he leans back against the wall, shifting the sleeping baby in his arms more onto his chest. Nicolò’s head sinks forward for a second before jerking back up, as if trying to wrestle himself from sleep’s clutches. But it is too much. His shoulders sag and he gives in, tucking his chin into Fareeha’s curls and closing his eyes.

Maybe it is the wine. Maybe it is his exhaustion. Maybe it is every thought in his head that Yusuf refuses to acknowledge. But the sight of Nicolò, asleep with his sister’s children in his arms, is too much to bear.

In another life, he would be allowed to love this man. He would be allowed to bring him home and have his mother welcome them both with open arms. He would be allowed to touch Nicolò’s face in the way he so desperately desires and have that man love him in return. But this is here and this is now, this is the reality that Nicolò is a Christian and a man with blood on his hands and the world is working against them.

Yusuf cannot make another selfish choice.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The draaaaama. I swear that after this chapter and the next one, it gets a lot more tender after this


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf tends to his unfinished business and Nicolò tries to put himself first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmmmmm the spicy drama chapter! Enjoy!!

* * *

It breaks his heart to pull away from Nicolò the way he must.

For weeks, they do not sit so close when they stay awake late at night, talking of long forgotten memories and what the future holds. Nicolò moves around him in a wide berth, spending many days largely in silence.

Yusuf tries to stay busy, tries to find some form of normalcy in resuming his father’s business, but his heart is only half there. His lungs only draw a half breath, like his chest is full of water and he is drowning every time he looks at the other man. This is what dying is like. He has felt it before—the cold rush of darkness creeping in—and Yusuf cannot see a difference to his crumbling heart now.

Even his family begins to notice.

_“Yusuf?”_

He looks up from the rolls of parchment he has been staring blankly at for almost an hour, and meets his mother’s eyes. He must look exhausted because her eyebrows immediately furrow. Yusuf sighs and rubs at his face. _“What is it, Mama?”_

_“You have been too quiet lately. Since the night you came home to us.”_

_“I’m sorry, I do not mean to be a worry to you,”_ he murmurs, turning back to the pages. The words and numbers blur together on the pages and he rubs his eyes again. _“I just did not expect to feel so much a stranger in my own home.”_ Yusuf shakes his head and feels his voice crack as he says, _“Six years was too long.”_

_“I knew you would come home to us eventually. I only wish you had come home whole.”_

And there it was. What Yusuf had been running from for so long. The fact that he was not the same man that had left. There was an aching hole in his chest, spilling blood with every breath he takes, one that he has not yet found a patch to. It comes in bits and pieces, like when he watches Nicolò help his mother with the washing or return one of his sisters’ smiles, but there is nothing large enough to grasp.

 _“I am still your son,”_ he whispers, still staring at the dark ink on the page. He cannot look at his mother right now. If he does, he will break.

Her hand smoothes over the back of his neck, pushing his loose hair back from his face, and Yusuf knows he is doing a worse job at hiding than he believes. _“You are my son, Yusuf, but it pains me that you still have not found anyone to be safe with your heart,”_ his mother says. _“I saw you with Fatimah that night. I saw the way she still looks at you, even after all this time…”_

Yusuf closes his eyes and buries his head in his hands. She doesn’t know what he has done, what harm he has caused Fatimah, so all he can say is, _“I cannot marry her, Mama.”_

What he leaves out is, _I am already in love with another._

She has seen the way Fatimah looks at him, but has she noticed the way he looks at Nicolò? The way the tender skin at the hollow of his throat flutters, his high heart racing underneath? The way his eyes grow so soft that his head feels like cotton for days when Nicolò catches his staring and averts his eyes, cheeks going pink.

It is, at times, far too much for him to bear.

 _“Will you at least speak with her?”_ his mother pleads. _“I have asked her to come visit this afternoon.”_

There’s no getting out of this. If he must speak with Fatimah of his mother’s wishes, he must come clean with her about Nicolò. She deserves this, after everything he has done to her. Yusuf knows she will keep this secret because she has kept the one they share together for years without a word to anyone. He trusts her more than he trusts just about anyone in the world, save, possibly, Nicolò.

 _“Fine,”_ he relents, desperately trying to stave off the tremble in his voice. _“I will speak to her.”_

But, first, he must speak to Nicolò.

He finds the younger man out in the gardens with Noor, a mass of fabric spread between them—a sheet, maybe, Yusuf thinks. Nicolò’s hands move swiftly, a needle clutched between his sturdy fingers, eyes concentrating on the hem he is working on. Noor is mirroring him, a small smile on her face. _“Please,”_ she says in Arabic as Yusuf approaches them.

 _“Please,”_ Nicolò repeats, his Arabic heavily accented and a little sloppy. _“Please.”_

 _“Does he even know what he is saying?”_ Yusuf asks, making the two of them look up at him. “I do not want you teaching him terrible things, Noor.”

 _“Of course he knows what he is saying,”_ she snaps, putting her needle into the fabric for safe keeping and motioning between him and Nicolò. _“Watch.”_

Noor tilts her head toward Yusuf and Nicolò holds a single hand out, sapphire eyes hawkish as his mouth quirks in a small smile. _“Would water drink…”_ he says, clunky Arabic falling from his eager mouth. _“Please.”_ The Genoan’s grin widens when a breathless laugh falls from Yusuf’s mouth and it’s like seeing it for the first time all over again. He looks back at Noor and asks, _“Neck?”_

 _“Good,”_ Noor corrects him and he can see Nicolò mouth the word to himself, committing it to memory. She looks up at Yusuf and raises a single eyebrow. _“Do you still think I am a terrible teacher, dear brother?”_

 _“You are an excellent teacher, but unfortunately for you, I must steal your star student,”_ he says. “Nicolò, will you come walk with me?” Nicolò glances at Noor for a moment before tying off the thread and handing the needle to the girl. Yusuf can feel his sister’s suspicion flooding off of her in waves but does not acknowledge it as Nicolò rises and follows him along the garden’s path. It is quiet for a few moments before he leans over and says, “Your Arabic is quite good, Nicolò. You should be proud of yourself.”

Nicolò shakes his head and crosses his arms protectively over his chest. “I know it is not. There is nothing to be proud of,” he mutters quietly. “You do not have to pacify me with lies, Yusuf.”

“I have never once lied to you before and I do not plan on starting now,” Yusuf spits, a little harsher than he would have liked to. Nicolò flinches and they both fall silent, approaching the end of the grounds. They do not turn to one another though and Yusuf wonders if it is a test to see who will break first. Who will reach that olive branch out first. He knows the burden falls on him and he sighs, murmuring, “I am sorry, I do not mean to speak so harshly to you.”

“It is alright. I do not mind.”

“Who is the liar now?” Yusuf regrets the words the moment they come out of his mouth and even more when Nicolò’s head snaps to look at him, eyes dark and upper lip curling with thinly veiled annoyance. He softens his voice, reaching out a hand for the younger man. “Nicolò…”

“Do not say my name like that, Yusuf.” Nicolò steps out of his reach before whispering a single word in Arabic. _“Please.”_

There is his rabbit heart again, thudding as fast as a frantic timbrel in so many beautiful songs. Yusuf’s mouth goes dry and, when it takes a step to close the distance between the two of them, Nicolò does not pull away from him. His fingers curl around the other man’s wrist, hoping to find Nicolò as nervous as he is. But the man is constantly an enigma, hiding all his true feelings behind full armor, and Yusuf gets no satisfaction. So he lets his fingers slide down, gripping Nicolò’s sturdy palm as he asks, “How do you wish me to say your name then?”

Nicolò’s fingers flex gently, brushing over Yusuf’s knuckles and he lets out a shaking breath. “You know what I wish from you.”

“I would give it to you if I could,” Yusuf whispers, reaching out his other hand for Nicolò. His cheek is warm under his palm and Nicolò’s eyes flutter shut as Yusuf strokes over his trimmed beard. “I would give you everything if the world would let me.” The younger man’s forehead creases and his brow furrows as he leans into Yusuf’s hand.

It would be so easy. It would be so easy to just close the distance and let their mouths meet in a tender kiss. It would take no effort yet it seems as difficult as dying is for him these days.

But he cannot. Cannot even admit to Nicolò his true feelings. It is too great a burden to put on him. So all Yusuf can say in their common tongue as he pulls his hands away from the Genoan is a short, “Forgive me, Nicolò.” Yusuf takes a step back, hands clenching so hard into fists that he can feel his nails bite into his palms. “I brought you here to speak to you, not to be so thoughtless of your emotions…”

Nicolò is quiet—too quiet—and does not meet his eyes as he finally asks, “What do you wish to speak to me about, Yusuf?”

“Fatimah is going to come to the house to meet with me this afternoon,” he says, stomach twisting into terrible nods when the other man’s face falls at her name. “I know you do not care for her company and I did not want her presence to be a surprise.”

“What is your meeting for?”

Yusuf could lie. Could lie through his teeth and save them both the heartache. But Nicolò deserves better, even if it means the end of his affection. “She is coming here because my mother still wishes me to be wed. My mother hopes that we can mend our relationship and I will be a suitable husband.” His throat feels raw, feels blood seep between his teeth as he worries a hole open in his cheek.

Nicolò’s shoulders pull tight and his jaw clenches as he looks to him, eyes bloodshot and glassy, as if Nicolò is being forced to watch an entire life be taken away. “She will be lucky to have you, Yusuf… Anyone would…” he croaks, before Yusuf can even explain further, and turns back to the house.

There is nothing that will patch this. This is the end and maybe it is for the best.

~~~

The sun is hanging low in the sky when Fatimah arrives.

Yusuf has not seen Nicolò for hours and suspects he is still in the gardens with Noor. There’s a heaviness in his heart, unable to shake the memory of tears that were threatening to spill past Nicolò’s blue-green eyes, and Yusuf is still thinking about them even as Fatimah hooks her hand through the crook of his elbow.

 _“Your mother’s flowers are beautiful this time of year,”_ she says quietly as they walk through the gardens. He makes sure to steer them in a wide berth away from his middle sister and Nicolò, down to the far edge of the grounds where they had spent the morning. He can tell that she’s avoiding the subject as much as he is, though Yusuf knows that Fatimah will be the one to bring up the inevitable. When he glances at her out of the corner of his eye, he can see her chew on the inside of her lip before taking a deep breath. _“Yusuf, I…I was a little surprised when your mother said you wished to see me, after your argument with your friend the last timeI was at your home.”_

 _“I want nothing from that woman.”_ Nicolò’s words echo in his head and Yusuf nods distractedly.

 _“I apologize for that night, Fati,”_ he murmurs quietly. _“I did not like the way he spoke about you. The way he looked at you. Nicolò should have been more welcoming and I should have been a better host.”_

_“It was not me that your friend was looking at and you and I both know it, Yusuf…”_

His feet falter to a stop and Fatimah holds tight to his arm, refusing to allow him to pull away. Panic bubbles high in his throat and all options of actually telling Fatimah the truth have been ripped away from him. Her kohl lined eyes are deep as the darkest honey as she unyieldingly meets his. _“I do not know what you mean…”_

There’s a sadness in her voice, an aching, longing, note that burns him to the core as she says, _“You would have to be a blind man not to see the way he looks at you.”_

_“Fatimah, I—”_

_“And the way you look at him.”_ She takes his hand and he has never felt more trapped in his entire life. _“I have loved you since we were young, Yusuf, but you have never_ once _looked at me the way you look at that man.”_

The world drops out from underneath him and Yusuf’s head reels. _“Nicolò is a Christian. This is not a man I could allow myself to love. I could not do that to my family, not after the damage I have caused by not marrying you.”_ His voice sounds hollow, feels as if it is coming from a body not his own. _“My mother wishes me to marry, wishes me to marry you; Nicolò has nothing to do with that.”_

 _“Do you actually wish to marry me?”_ The sun has begun to set behind them and Fatimah’s brown skin turns to the most glorious shade of bronze against the deep purple of her dress and headscarf. _“Do you wish to marry me, Yusuf?”_ she repeats, voice thick.

He brings her hands to his mouth, kissing the knuckles in gentle succession. He closes his eyes, shame flooding through him as he whispers, _“I am so sorry, Fati. I am so, so sorry.”_ Yusuf struggles to stay standing on shaking legs, breath coming hard and heavy through his nose. _“I should have been honest with you but I can barely be honest with myself. You are the only one I have told…”_

Fatimah’s fingers curl around his. _“Does Nicolò not know?”_

 _“You are the only one.”_ His voice is trapped in his throat, thick with shame, and suddenly Yusuf’s poet’s tongue is just a distant memory. _“I do not know how to tell him.”_

Her hands slip through his fingers and Yusuf finds himself free falling into the empty abyss of his longing as Fatimah shakes her head. _“I do not know either, Yusuf. I have never once seen you so short for words.”_ There are tears in her eyes and he knows all hope she once had for his love has been buried in one single, bitter moment. _“I am sure you will think of something.”_

~~~

Even after Fatimah takes her leave, Yusuf is rooted to the spot.

His heart is so heavy it feels like lead in his chest. Feels like it would sink him deep into the earth if Yusuf would allow it. Maybe it would be a sweeter burial than he deserves. Maybe now, death would be kinder than the conversation he has to have.

The sun has begun to set by the time he can bring himself to journey back to the house. Every footfall feels like a step closer to death, closer to the executioner and Nicolò’s hate. He can imagine the Genoan’s face—the joyous relief when Nicolò is finally gifted the words he is so desperate to hear, and the heartbroken rage he will feel when Yusuf snatches it all away before it can even be savored.

There is no solace in this, Yusuf thinks. Only an eternity to suffer the consequences of his betrayal.

His stomach churns, acid creeping high up his throat as he passes Noor finishing up her sewing. Yusuf’s brow furrows and his blood runs cold. _“Where is Nicolò?”_ he asks, voice scratched in its dryness. _“I thought he was with you.”_

 _“He left not long ago,”_ Noor says, folding the sheet one last time. _“I could not understand what he was saying, but he apologized and thanked me in Arabic.”_ Her face pinches in shared worry. _“He seemed very upset about something but I do not know what.”_ She stands, arms full of fabric, and looks between his face and the house. _“Yusuf, is something wrong?”_

He blinks quickly, hands twisting into fists at his side as he shakes his head. _“No, no, everything is alright. I will find him.”_

The roaring rush of blood in his ears drowns out whatever his sister tries to say to him as he turns and rushes to the house. Yusuf’s vision tunnels, blocking out every other distraction around him. He will do it. He will give himself willingly to the man he loves, despite what the world may think of him. If there is any selfishness left that should be forgiven, why can it not be this?

He takes the steps two at a time, racing up the stairs and down the hall to their shared room. There is no reason to be anxious, Yusuf tells himself. It is only Nicolò.

It is only Nicolò.

And yes, it is only Nicolò when he pushes the door open but it is Nicolò who turns to him, eyes bloodshot and cheeks bright with held-back tears. His clothing is folded on the bed, pack half-full, and Nicolò’s sword is just within his grasp once more—having been tucked away for days now. Yusuf freezes at the threshold, fingers gripping the carved wood casing. His words come out in a single rush of air as he chokes, “What are you doing?”

Nicolò’s teeth bare like a wild animal and his eyes burn with a feral fever that terrifies Yusuf to his core. “Leaving,” he snaps viciously, as if to hide how wounded he feels. “I am leaving.”

“You cannot,” Yusuf says, finally crossing into the room. He’s barring the way out—he knows this much—but Nicolò’s sword is still close enough for the Genoan to put through him. He does not want to fumble for an explanation of his newfound immortality to his family when they find him bleeding out in his childhood room. Nicolò’s eyes flit to the pommel of his sword, clearly thinking the same, but Yusuf holds his hand out again, begging, “You cannot leave me.”

“You are not my keeper,” Nicolò snarls, the bright blue of his eyes going grey in the swelling storm of his rage. “What care do you have whether I stay or leave?”

“I told Fatimah I could not marry her,” Yusuf says feebly. “I told her my true feelings.”

“I am glad you have the decency to treat one of us kindly.” It comes out sharper than a slap, sharper than any blade Yusuf has ever felt. Nicolò snatches the rest of his clothes from the bed and shoves them into his pack, tears finally beginning to spill over his eyelashes. “I will no longer sit here and be your plaything, Yusuf.”

“Nicolò, please,” he begs, grabbing the younger man’s hands, his tunic, anything Yusuf can get ahold of. “Nicolò, Nicolò, please, don’t leave me.” Yusuf knows how he sounds, how he must look, but all he can think of is the broken noise of grief that comes out of the other man’s mouth. Nicolò’s hand connects with his face and it’s all he can do to wrestle it away once more. They stumble back, fighting like they have not done in months, and Yusuf’s fingers twist in the long, silken strands of hair at the nape of the Genoan’s neck. _“I love you,”_ he whispers in trembling Arabic. _“Nico, I love you, I love you, please, I love you.”_

Another sob tears from Nicolò’s throat, bloody and raw like a maimed animal, and he struggles against Yusuf—pushes him away like there is nothing left between them. Maybe that is the truth and they are clinging to nothing.

“Let me go!” he cries, beating against Yusuf’s chest in rough succession. “Let me go, Yusuf!”

I can’t, Yusuf wants to say as he clings to Nicolò like if he lets go now, the world will sink back into darkness. You are my only light. You are my everything. How can I let you go now? What will I be if I am without you for the rest of eternity?

Nicolò’s silk tunic tears under his grip and they stumble again, knocking the sword to the ground with a bright clatter. Yusuf’s chest heaves and he struggles to keep his own composure as he finally gets a steady hold of the Genoan’s trembling body. Their breathing is out of sync, Nicolò still weakly struggling to break free. “Please,” he begs, his head falling to Yusuf’s shoulder. “I cannot bear this. Please let me go.”

Please let me go. Please let me leave. Please forget you once held me tenderly in your heart.

Yusuf hears all of it, hidden in the words that Nicolò keeps so tight in his chest. Hidden meanings in words that only come as if they are being punched through the Christian’s teeth. Words that cut, words that bite, words that leave scars in places that cannot be healed by their immortality. “I cannot let you go, Nico,” Yusuf breathes into the dark crown of the younger man’s hair. “Please do not ask it of me again.”

He forgets to pray that night.

Forgets to pray after the sun has set below the horizon—holding Nicolò so tightly that he can not even dream of letting him more than a breath away from his own body. Yusuf has known terror before, on the battlefield, at the sight of the blood pouring from his brother’s chest. But this is a different kind of terror. A terror at losing half of himself, it feels; of becoming drift-less in a sea of his own undoing.

So he holds Nicolò until both their tears subside. Until they sag under the weight of what has still been left unsaid. Until Nicolò can no longer stand, ripping away from Yusuf with a weak shudder. He collapses to the ground, fumbling for his bedroll as his breathing becomes unsteady once more.

Yusuf jaw clenches so hard he swears he teeth begin to crack as Nicolò turns his back to him, curling his arms tight around himself. “Nico, I am sorry,” he whispers. “Forgive me.”

There is no answer and it only drives the fatal blow deeper into his chest.

 _“Nico, please,”_ he tries one final time, now in Arabic. _“I would tell you that I love you, if only I was a stronger man. A man who would be deserving of you.”_ Nicolò does not make a single movement and Yusuf sucks a shaking breath through an open mouth. _“Have I truly been too careless and now your heart has forsaken me? Have I waited too long to let myself desire you?”_

He waits. And waits. And waits for an eternity and a half, but the silence is the only response Yusuf is granted. And it is all an answer he needs.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò doesn’t back down from a fight and Yusuf realizes the cost of his feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last sad chapter I promise! We get some tenderness after this I SWEAR!

* * *

The water washes up over his bare feet and yet Yusuf is sure he is drowning.

His head is still reeling, even as he stares out into the storming sea. There are dark clouds creeping quickly toward the shore and the wind whips his hair across his face. He can taste the salt in the air, can taste the bile in his throat. He hasn’t been able to stave back the nauseousness for nearly four days now, not since Nicolò had tried to run.

The memory of the other man’s packed belongings, his tears, the terror of losing him has been following Yusuf around like the dark clouds over the sea. It washes through his mind in waves and every time, he feels more and more adrift.

_“Yusuf?”_

He swallows down another mouthful of stomach acid turns to meet Jala’s dark eyes. Her mouth presses thin at the face he must be making—desperate, exhausted, and worn—and she sighs softly. _“Noor wants to visit the shops,”_ she says, brushing the fabric of her scarf out of her face and tilting her head toward the figures down the beach from them. Yusuf watches Noor lean close to Nicolò, Zaafira tugging on the Genoan’s hand, and cannot help but feel jealous of his sisters for still being granted Nicolo’s affection. _“Yusuf? Are you coming?”_

 _“Yes,”_ he croaks, throat raw. _“I am coming.”_

Sand clings to the soles of his feet long after he pulls his boots back on, as incessant of a reminder of his pain as the way Nicolò avoids his gaze the moment Yusuf comes near. But Noor flashes Yusuf a smile and curls her arm through the crook of Nicolò’s elbow. _“Mama said I could buy a new dress. We need more ink as well; she said you have used the last of it.”_

Nicolò’s brow furrows as he looks at the sixteen year old. _“Music there?”_ he asks quietly, Arabic far more smooth than it has been in days previous.

 _“No, no music, Nico,”_ she apologizes before putting her free hand to her mouth. _“Food though. Eat.”_ He nods, understanding her, and offers a warm smile that Noor gladly returns. Nicolò’s smile fades though, when he catches Yusuf staring at him and the younger man’s jaw clenches as he pulls Noor and Zaafira closer to him.

The market is crowded, everyone trying to find their last purchase before the storm rolls to shore, and Yusuf can barely keep eyes on his sisters. Jala is arguing with a merchant about the price of cotton from Egypt while Zaafira eyes a stall full of bangles and jewelry. _“Zaafi, stop wandering,”_ he mutters, scanning the crowds for Nicolò and Noor. Yusuf catches a glimpse of his middle sister’s wild smile and Nicolò’s bright eyes and a man watching them far too closely for his liking, but they’re too far to reach easily. _“Zaafi, stop it,”_ he says again, reaching for his youngest sister.

He takes hold of his sister’s hand and freezes when he hears a woman let out a frightened shout. Through the market, Yusuf can see the man grab Noor around the arm, tugging her away from the silk stall she’s at. _“Let me go!”_ she shrieks, slapping at the man’s hand as he lurches forward and pets at her face.

 _“Noor…”_ Yusuf breathes, pulling Zaafira over to Jala. _“Watch her!”_ he barks at his eldest sister before turning back to the market in a panic. He can hear people’s murmured voices, a few women yelling at the man as Yusuf pushes through the crowd. _“Noor! Noor!”_

 _“Let go!”_ a voice barks and Yusuf freezes, realizing it is Nicolò.

It is Nicolò who puts himself between the man and Noor, who throws a solid blow and nearly goes down with him. It is Nicolò who’s face twists in anger and protectiveness and then in sharp, sudden pain when the blade of a knife flashes in the cloudy afternoon light and across his abdomen.

Yusuf’s head spins as he sees blood quickly seep through the fabric of Nicolò’s tunic, the ground dropping out from underneath him.

Noor is closer but by Allah’s will, Yusuf reaches Nicolò first, before the Genoan can fall to his knees but too late to catch the attacker. “Nicolò,” he chokes, his hand coming up to staunch the blood flow. It pours through Yusuf’s fingers as Nicolò sags against him, grasping at his shoulders to stay upright. “Nicolò, are you okay?”

It is a foolish question, one he knows the answer to already, but it still slips from his mouth without a second thought when he sees the frightened look in the younger man’s eyes. The wound is deep, painful enough to make Nicolò’s hands shake as he tries to keep hold of Yusuf’s shoulder and neck. Painful enough to make his brows twist together, his teeth bared as he hisses in pain. Nicolò’s forehead tips forward, knocking against Yusuf’s, as he shudders, “Is she okay?”

 _“Yusuf!”_ Noor cries, pushing her way toward them. The crowd has begun to shuffle, people rushing to abandon the scene as well as offer assistance. _“Yusuf, is Nico alright?! Where is he hurt?”_

His stomach turns as he meets Nicolò’s eyes, so close that all he can see is an ocean of blue-green against a grey sky. The blood has stopped flowing and there is no doubt in Yusuf’s mind that Nicolò has healed already. They have come back from bloodier messes than this one. Noor will see the healed skin and fresh blood and there will be no explanation to give. Nicolò’s hand tightens in the fabric of his tunic as he hisses, “Your dagger. Make a fresh wound…”

Yusuf’s heart plummets. “I will _not_.”

Nicolò’s breath is still coming fast and heavy and he realizes it is no longer out of pain, but fear. “You _must_. I will play along.”

There’s a half moment when he meets the other man’s eyes where Yusuf dreams of a moment where the world would disappear around them and their secret would be safe. A moment where he would not be forced to hurt this man. A moment where his heart does not feel like it will shatter into millions of shards of glass. But in the other half of the same moment, he sees the fear in Nicolò eyes. Fear of discovery, of imprisonment.

Fates worse than death.

So he will bury down every screaming thought in his mind and do what he must to keep them both safe.

The wind blows the fabric of Yusuf’s cloak around his arms, shielding his trembling hand as he reaches between their bodies for his dagger. Tears flood his eyes as he breathes out, “I am sorry, Nicolò,” before cutting deep into the man’s abdomen in one swift move. Nicolò swallows a pained groan, gritting his teeth and digging his nails into the meat of Yusuf’s shoulder as Noor finally reaches them.

 _“Yusuf, is he—”_ Her words cut off in a shriek when she sees the open wound on Nicolò’s stomach. _“Nico!”_

 _“He will be alright,”_ Yusuf reassures her, pulling his cloak off to staunch the bleeding. _“We need to get him home, so that I can take care of his wounds.”_ His eyes flit to Nicolò’s and makes a silent plea for the other man to keep his end of the bargain—one that must connect because Nicolò plays the part of an injured man, shifting gingerly in Yusuf’s touch. _“Come, we need to get him home.”_

~~~

The walk home is long and slow.

The younger man’s arm is warm around his neck as Yusuf bears his weight—breathless, shaking gasps falling from the Genoan’s parted mouth with every footstep. Yusuf knows this is all a ruse. He knows it in his soul that Nicolò is no longer hurt, but it does nothing to soothe his racing mind. He can smell the thick, copper stink of death on his skin, on his clothes, and it is all too much to stomach.

Nicolò’s legs give out in the courtyard and Yusuf has no other choice but to carry him across the threshold and up the stairs. He can hear his sisters frantically explaining to their mother what had occurred in the marketplace, but Yusuf’s vision tunnels. Has to get Nicolò behind closed doors before any other questions could be asked.

The door closes behind them before Yusuf even realizes he’s been holding his breath.

“Thank you,” Nicolò whispers, detaching himself quickly from Yusuf’s side. “You played the part well.” Yusuf’s breath comes heavy in his lungs, as if he was drowning, and Nicolò’s eyebrows furrow. “Yusuf?”

“Do not ask this of me again.” It rips from his throat like a sob and Yusuf falls back against the wall, staring at his bloodstained hands. “Please, N-Nico…do not again ask me to do w-what I did today…”

“Yusuf, you did not hurt me, I _swear_ it.”

He shakes his head frantically, fighting back the urge to empty his stomach on the floor. “I _saw_ your face,” he spits. “I saw the pain in your eyes. I felt your blood in my hands as I opened your wounds.” Nicolò’s carefully built stoicism begins to crack at the edges when the first tear rolls down Yusuf’s cheek. “Please, never ask me to hurt you like that again.”

Nicolò’s bloody hands clench into fists and his voice is barely there as he asks, “Have you forgotten the countless times you have tried to send me to my God? The times you have put your blade through me?” He smoothes down the stained, rent front of his tunic in an anxious motion. “This is no different,” Nicolò mumbles.

“I hated you when I killed you before,” Yusuf admits weakly, stumbling toward the younger man. His fingers twist in Nicolò’s tunic, rucking it up slowly over his stomach. There is no scar there, no mark to show what horror he has caused, but the blood is still there.

Before his fingers can touch Nicolò’s skin, Yusuf can hear him croak, “What are you doing?”

“I need to make sure I have not hurt you.” His heart is pounding so fast, so hard, that he can feel it between his lungs. At the top of his throat. Behind his eyes. His mouth feels as dry as a desert as Yusuf pulls the tunic over Nicolò’s head.

“I have told you, I am uninjured,” Nicolò whispers, voice trembling around every syllable. Yusuf can feel goose-skin bumps rise across the other man’s stomach as he presses his hand to the stained skin. Nicolò’s mouth falls open and his eyes flutter as a panting breath comes from deep inside him. “Yusuf…” It sounds like a prayer, like a song, like a cry before the final breath. “Yusuf, please…I am uninjured…”

Yusuf backs them up against the wall before spitting, “I need to know.” His hands caress over Nicolò’s stomach, his chest, his neck, over his face and it is not enough. He could take this man apart, could find the stardust in the very marrow of his bones and it would not be enough. Tears come to his eyes and he tucks his face into the warm space in Nicolò’s neck. “What if you had not healed?”

The thought is a near constant in his mind now. How did this happen? How long does will it last? What if, now that Nicolò is just within his grasp, their immortality ends?

His body rocks in the waves of the Genoan’s heaving chest as Nicolò breathes, “If I had not healed, at least your face would have been the last one I saw.” His long fingers tangle in the back of Yusuf’s hair. “God will no longer have me, but you were worth my damnation.”

“There is no such thing as damnation,” Yusuf whispers against Nicolò’s racing heartbeat. “How can you call yourself damned?”

“What else could I be when I love a man who will never love me?”

It feels like a thousand deaths. A thousand deaths, all at once.

He stumbles back a step from Nicolò and it feels like he is on the edge of a cliff. Like the sea is rising behind him and if Yusuf is not careful, he will plummet to his demise in a short-lived second. Death would be more welcomed than the broken look that stains the younger man’s face. “How can you say this?” Yusuf chokes, as if every word is strangling him. “I have told you before—you are dear to me.”

“And you have said the same of Fatimah.” There are tears in Nicolò’s eyes and Yusuf can feel them rise in his own. “You are careless with those around you. Your mother, your sisters, your brother,” Nicolò spits inconsolably, his anger eclipsing his heartbreak. “You were careless with Fatimah’s heart and you are even more careless with mine.”

“Do you know the fear I felt the moment that man cut you?” Yusuf’s head is spinning and the first tear cuts a deep, watery scar down the other man’s cheek. “I could not breathe. I could not get to you fast enough. Look at my hands, Nicolò!” His fingers tremble as he holds his palms out. His eyebrows knit together and it’s everything to keep from falling apart in front of Nicolò. “I felt your blood pour through my fingers. I felt it and that memory will haunt me until Allah finally decides I can join my brother and father.”

The room is so quiet that Yusuf swears he can hear their hearts beating in tandem. Nicolò’s lower lip quivers before he bites the inside of his cheek, jaw clenching as he tries to keep the mask he wears intact. His voice comes out barely above a whisper as he asks, “And when that happens, what will become of me?”

Yusuf shakes his head and reaches out for the younger man once more. His fingertips dip in the gentle curve of Nicolò’s navel as he says, “ _Inshallah_ , you will be with me.”

It is not what he wishes to hear and Yusuf knows it, heart turning to ash as Nicolò’s face crumbles. There is nowhere to pull away to, nowhere to run as Yusuf’s hands dimple the soft curves of his hips. Nicolò’s teeth clench, his hands following suit as he spits, “And yet you will not have me now.”

It will be the end of me if I do, he wants to explain, but Yusuf does not know how. He can spin worlds out of thin air, can move those around him to tears with his poetry, but it all comes up short when he thinks of Nicolò. There are no words that can encompass everything he feels when he sees those pale eyes and alabaster skin. Mountains crumble. The oceans rise. Stars fall from the sky and bury themselves deep inside Yusuf. His love burns him from the inside and yet he cannot bring himself to let that golden desire spill from an open mouth.

“I cannot bring more shame to my family,” Yusuf says softly, shame flooding the back of his throat as he meets Nicolò’s eyes. There will be a time when the unthinkable happens, when his family is no more than a memory, that this will no longer be a difficult choice.

But, until then…

“You find me shameful, Yusuf?”

He ignores the desperate question, tending to the water on the small table in the room. The cloth in Yusuf’s hand soaks up half of what he pours in the bowl and his stomach turns as he squeezes the excess out, water turning pink from the blood on his hands.

“Do you find me _shameful_?” Nicolò repeats as Yusuf kneels at his feet. “Will you tell me the truth or pacify me with another lie?”

He draws the cloth up over the Genoan’s stomach, scrubbing away the crimson stain from his skin. “The shame is mine alone, Nicolò,” Yusuf murmurs, unable to look up at the other man. “You do not…you do not understand.” His thumb traces the trail of hair that dips into Nicolò’s pants and Yusuf’s forehead tips against his diaphragm. _“I feel myself drowning in this. In you,”_ he whispers in Arabic. _“And I do not know how to tell you. What shame could be greater than this?”_

Nicolò’s fingers push into his curls, nails gently scratching his scalp, and Yusuf sags. “There will come a time when you will not be able to hide behind your words,” Nicolò says dangerously. “Someday I will know every secret you try to keep from me. You will have to face me eventually.” His hand clenches, and he tilts Yusuf’s head back to look at him. “If not now, then at the end of this immortality when you can no longer run from me.”

One of Yusuf’s hands curls around Nicolò’s back, dipping into the soft valley of his spine as he asks, “Do you see me running from you, Nicolò?”

The younger man’s teeth clench, as if he is trying to keep the tremble in his bottom lip at bay, and Nicolò spits, “I see only a man on his knees, as if he is praying.” Yusuf flinches as he rips the cloth from his hand. “But all that comes from your mouth is _blasphemia_.”

The word comes up blank in his head as Nicolò pulls himself from Yusuf’s grip. His hands hit the floor and his chest is heaving, stomach threatening to abandon him completely. He can hear the rustling of fabric but cannot bring himself to look at Nicolò more than out of the corner of his eye. Nicolò has abandoned his bloodstained pants, scrubbing the wet cloth over the deep vee where his hips meet his thighs, his eyes glassy.

Yusuf’s heart free falls in his chest when he’s reminded, in fractured glimpses, of the deep scars on Nicolò’s back. There will be no more new ones but the old ones are there. On Nicolò’s skin and in Yusuf’s heart and if he could carve them both out with a single swing of his sword, he would.

“Nicolò…” he breathes, throat turning to cotton with every syllable. Yusuf falls back to sit on his heels and maybe he is praying. Maybe this is the only Paradise Allah will allow him. “Nicolò, please…”

A violent, hitching breath comes tearing from Nicolò’s mouth as his legs begin to shake. He doesn’t try to shield his body from Yusuf’s gaze as he chokes, “Do you know what feared me the most about the man who first cut me?” His eyes well with saltwater, high as the rushing ocean, and Yusuf feels helpless to reach the dark place Nicolò has fallen to. “That I had no care of my own safety. Only Noor’s. That I would have gladly died to keep your family safe.”

Yusuf stumbles to his feet, toes slipping in the crimson water on the floor. His voice comes soft as the breeze as he whispers, “Nico…”

“I do not know what more I can do to prove I am no longer the man who sought your death,” Nicolò besieges, his heart laid as bare as his body is. “I…” His face is dripping with desperation and Yusuf brushes careful fingertips over his hip. “I do not know what more you wish from me. What more of a man I can be.”

Yusuf’s hand smoothes across Nicolò’s abdomen, across the soft expanse of skin that should have been a death sentence. His lungs fill halfway, the rest of him drowning in his love, and Yusuf can do nothing but promise, “For me, you are _enough_.”

Another tear cuts down the younger man’s face and every sturdy foundation they have is now gone.

“Come,” he says, reaching up his free hand to tuck Nicolò’s falling hair back behind his ear, “I need to put bandages on.”

Yusuf finds Nicolò a clean pair of trousers and readies the linen wrap as the Genoan dresses quickly. Nicolò does not look him in the eye as he winds the first wrap around his stomach. “How long must I keep pretending to be injured in front of your family?” he asks as Yusuf adds another layer.

“How long did it take the wounds on your back to heal?”

Nicolò’s brows pull together and his jaw clenches as he stares at the floor. It takes a moment for him to answer, as if trying to remember a past he had tried to forget, before finally he murmurs, “I was indisposed for eight days. This should be a similar wound to heal.” Nicolò takes the loose shirt from Yusuf’s hands the instant his bandages are tied and pulls it over his head. “Thank you for caring for me, Yusuf, if only in this way.”

The quiet words come as a sharper blow than Yusuf can ever imagine. A blade between the soft spaces in his ribs. And another blow comes when Nicolò drops down to his bedroll on the floor, fair eyes cast down. He cannot let this go on. He cannot be so careless, so neglectful, with Nicolò’s heart anymore. Yusuf takes a deep, shaking breath and whispers, “The bed.”

The Genoan’s shoulders tighten and his hands twist in the blanket. “It is your brother’s.”

“No,” Yusuf whispers, shaking his head, “it is yours.” Nicolò looks up at him with wide, horrified eyes. “You are a part of this family now. You would have given your life for my sister and it is the least I can offer you.”

There are tears in Nicolò’s eyes and Yusuf expects another fight. Another way to cut the two of them further apart. Will it ever be enough? Will any of his words mend what little they have left? But the fight does not come. It leaves Nicolò, not with a bang, but with a whimper as the younger man scrubs his heels over his tired eyes and crawls up onto the mattress. His face flushes, high cheekbones staining pink as Nicolò whispers, “Yusuf, I—”

His words fail mid-sentence as Yusuf takes his first steps toward the other man, pupils swallowing his sky-blue eyes. Yusuf’s knee sinks into the mattress as he joins Nicolò, legs intertwining. His hands smooth over Nicolò’s face, pushing his soft, flaxen hair back as Yusuf straddles his hips. _Like this?_ he asks with his eyes, unable to push the words from his throat. Nicolò’s fingers dig into the muscle of his thighs, chest heaving, and Yusuf presses his lips to the younger man’s forehead. His thumbs brush the sharp angle of the Genoan’s jaw and the silent question comes again.

_Like this?_

_“You are so much, Nico,”_ he whispers, kissing his way over Nicolò’s perfect brows. _“You are so kind and so absolute and so beautiful.”_ Yusuf can taste the saltwater as he kisses down the corner of Nicolò’s eyes and across his cheeks. _“You are so beautiful, Nicolò. So, so, so beautiful.”_

The smell of rain floods in through the cracked window and the storm finally rolls over the house, the cracking of thunder drowning out Nicolò’s trembling breath. Yusuf’s lips brush over the shell of the younger man’s ear and his heart drops into his stomach when he hears Nicolò whisper, in perfect Arabic, _“Thank you, Yusuf.”_

He pulls away quickly, meeting Nicolò’s unyielding gaze, and cannot get the words the other man had said earlier out of his head. _‘There will come a time when you will not be able to hide behind your words.’_ An invisible rope tightens around Yusuf’s throat as he realizes that time is coming sooner than he could ever have imagined.

They do not say much of anything else to each other that night, but Yusuf cannot bring himself to move from the bed, cannot bring himself to pull away from Nicolò’s side. He stays tucked against Nicolò’s side, combing his fingers through the Genoan’s hair as the storm rages on outside.

He expects a knock on the door from his mother or sisters, but it never comes. Maybe Noor had seen the way he looks at Nicolò, had seen the fear in Yusuf’s eyes when Nicolò’s blood spilled in the marketplace. So Yusuf steals the single moment of peace in the eye of the storm, the bridge of his nose pressed against the broad curve of Nicolò’s, eyes drifting closed to the steady rhythm of the younger man’s breathing.

 _“I love you, Nico,”_ he whispers, fingertips tracing the curves of Nicolò’s high cheekbones. _“Beyond reason and words, I love you.”_

Nicolò’s eyelids flutter and his hand comes to rest on Yusuf’s chest.

The world slows and nothing else matters.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Nicolò indisposed, Yusuf must travel to Carthage alone and face the truth of his relationship with his companion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is!!! The chapter you’ve all been waiting for!! ENJOY!!!

* * *

For a week, Nicolò plays the part forced upon him with far too much proficiency, as if he is far too familiar with the pain.

He speaks softly when Noor and Zaafira comes to check on him throughout the day, teeth clenching when they touch his bandaged abdomen, and speaks even softer when Jala and the children come. Yusuf watches from the corner of the room as Nicolò allows Fareeha to play with his fingers as Sohail asks about his injury, the Genoan nodding and replying to the phrases he can understand. But more than he watches Nicolo, Yusuf watches his eldest sister’s face.

Watches the way Jala’s eyes go soft as she listens to Nicolò’s Arabic. The way her shoulders hold no tightness the way they once did.

 _“He is growing on you,”_ Yusuf says, crossing his arms over his chest.

She looks up at him, the hint of a smile on her face, and says, _“Your companion is more trustworthy than I once believed.”_

His stomach lurches at the insinuation of her tone. _“My companion?”_

Jala raises a single eyebrow and her calm exterior returns once more. _“I have not seen you so close to anyone since you were young and promised to Fatimah,” she says. “You care for him, do you not?”_ It’s less of a question and more a statement. _‘You care for him.’_ It is plain on her tongue and it is plain in Yusuf’s eyes and there is no more running from the truth. So he simply nods resignedly, gaze drifting back over to Nicolò. _“I wish for you to be happy, brother,”_ Jala murmurs, her voice fading into the soft droning noise that starts when Nicolò’s eyes meet his. _“I trust this man to keep you.”_

The yearning ache in Yusuf’s heart grows deeper as Nicolò offers him a thin, forced smile, one meant only for his eyes. He swallows the growing lump in his throat and clears his throat before saying, “Nico, you should rest. I will have my family take their leave.”

Nicolò nods, feigning exhaustion as he kisses Fareeha and Sohail on their heads and offers Jala a quiet, _“Thank you.”_ Yusuf cannot bring himself to speak until they are alone once more. Nicolò drops the act and sits up smoothly in bed, adjusting the wrapped bandages around his waist. There’s a small smile on his face as he murmurs, “It was good to see the children.”

“Even Jala was worried for you,” Yusuf says offhandedly, circling the room and sitting at the foot of the bed. His hand comes to rest down on Nicolò’s ankle, fingers tracing the bone beneath the sheet. “I think you have gained her trust.”

“That is some feat; Jala does not trust easily,” Nicolò hums, avoiding his eyes. “Do you think I will be able to leave my bed soon? Has it been long enough?”

“A few more days to be safe.” His stomach turns and Yusuf can feel the nervousness bubbling in his stomach as he tightens his grip on the other man’s ankle. “I…” he starts, before letting out a short breath. “I have to leave for a short trip, Nico. Business in Carthage. I have to set sail today.”

Nicolò’s brow furrows and his voice is tight as he asks, “Why did you not tell me sooner?”

There is hurt in his voice and Yusuf cannot deny his pain. Every night, he has climbed into Nicolò’s bed, tucking himself into the Genoan’s body without a word. Sleep escapes him far too frequently, Yusuf’s mind playing out every scenario possible as he buries his nose in the hair at the nape of Nicolò’s neck.

“I tried to find another to travel to Carthage, but I could not,” Yusuf mutters, ducking his head in shame. “I did not want to leave, not right now.”

The room goes quiet until Nicolò says softly, “I will miss you, when you are gone.”

He turns to the Genoan, heart dropping straight into his stomach at the longing in Nicolò’s eyes. It’s like the sea, overwhelming and vast and so never-ending that Yusuf cannot help but feel as if he is drowning in it. The waves come up over his head and he reaches for Nicolò’s palm, brushing his fingers over the younger man’s palm and fingertips. He traces the web of lines on the inside of Nicolò’s hand and nods absentmindedly, knowing there is no way to stop the words inside him if he lets them escape.

The silence swallows both of them and Nicolò’s face falls when all Yusuf can manage is a short, “I have to go. I am sorry.” He pulls his hand free and stands quickly, rushing from the room before he drowns completely. Yusuf can feel his heart racing in his chest, can feel his hand burning from where he touched Nicolò’s skin.

His fingers tremble as he scrubs them over his face, falling back against the hallway wall with a soft thud. What good is this immortality if he is forced to live like this? Maybe Allah is keeping him alive only to remind Yusuf of the mistakes he has made in the past and the mistakes he cannot bring himself to correct now. Nicolò was right. He is careless with those around him, but none more so than his Nico.

~~~

He sets sail for Carthage before the sun is high in the sky, still unable to shake the memory of Nicolò’s gentle, “I will miss you, when you are gone.”

The trip will only take a day’s sail but it is a strange feeling, being alone.

Yusuf tries to occupy himself in his cabin, reading and rereading his ledgers and inventory until late in the night. His candles are burning low and his feet carry him in aimless circles around the floor, pacing in an attempt to keep his nervousness at bay. But he is so hyper aware of the silence, the absence of Nicolò’s companionship, that the rushing blood through his head sounds like a raging storm.

He drops down to his bunk for a brief moment before the anxiety comes back, sending him into frenzied pacing once more. Yusuf’s breath stutters in his lungs and he stumbles into the table, hands crumpling the papers on top.

There is no going back to this. Even with his immortality, his heart will not survive this if it lasts any longer.

He will tell Nicolò.

The moment Yusuf gets home, he will tell Nicolò. In Arabic, in Greek, in Ligurian, in every language he knows and speaks. He will let every word he has buried deep in his gut spill from an open throat and be free of the weight that has been holding him underwater for far too long.

Yusuf will find Nicolò and take his face in his hands and kiss him like he should have done the night he spun the story about the sun and the moon. He will allow Nicolò to keep his heart safe in this fair-weather love they have. Seasons will pass and centuries will go on without them and it will be worth it as long as he has this man beside him. Yusuf has all the time in the world and he refuses to waste a single second more of it.

His candles burn out before he can bring himself to lay in his bunk and Yusuf finds himself reaching out for a warm body that he has so quickly become accustomed to. Twisting his hands in the soft linen sheets, sleep escapes him. All he can think of is how much he misses Nicolò’s warm breath washing across his face, the press of his nose against his own. The way their legs twist and their hands rest on each other’s hips.

If someone would have told Yusuf during the war that this is the life he cannot shake—the life he dreams of when it is dark and he is alone—he would have laughed in their faces.

Now the knowledge of it, the absence of it, only carves through him like a knife.

By the time he arrives in Carthage, it feels like his bones have turned to cotton and there is nothing holding him together. As if Nicolò had been his spine the entire time and now he is left as nothing more than a scarf in the wind. His words become hollow and monotonous, conducting business automatically, nothing more than a muscle memory. Yusuf forces laughter and small conversation and feels like half of his soul is gone from his side.

This is a small death, he tells himself. One he will come back from, he tells himself, but it feels as if it is happening over and over and over again.

On his fourth and final day in the city, Yusuf finds himself wandering through the markets, aimlessly buying things from stalls that he thinks his mother and his sisters would enjoy. More silk for Noor’s dresses. A new book for Jala. A prayer mat for his mother. Silver bangles for Zaafira.

And then, he sees it.

A jeweler, with gold and silver rings and pins and precious gems and, most importantly, pearls. Yusuf approaches, pulled by an invisible string, and feels his mouth go dry at a particularly beautiful white pearl. It is almost as big as the nail of his smallest finger and looks almost silver in the sun. He can almost imagine the look on Nicolò’s face as he holds it out to the younger man, can almost imagine the wide wash of surprise in those blue-green eyes.

 _“You have a good eye, my friend,”_ the jeweler says, motioning to the pearls. _“Are you looking as a fellow merchant or personal pleasures?”_

 _“For my love,”_ Yusuf murmurs, mind still on Nicolò’s imagined face. _“How much?”_

_“For the white one you are taken with? Two gold pieces.”_

A short, startled noise of bewilderment falls from his mouth and he shakes his head. _“You cannot speak true. That is far higher than I can pay for such a trinket.”_

The jeweler looks smug and waves Yusuf on. _“Well,”_ the man says, _“if your lover is not worth the cost, then I am sure this marketplace will have something more…easy on your purse, my friend.”_

 _“Three silver pieces,”_ Yusuf shoots back, shifting his other purchases under one arm. _“I will not give you more.”_

 _“Then you are free to bring your love nothing but your empty hands,”_ the jeweler says, resting his hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip. _“Now, unless you plan on making a purchase, I would appreciate you finding your way from my stall, so more willing customers can find what they are looking for.”_

Yusuf’s jaw clenches and he can hear his teeth grinding in the back of his skull. He’s not up for a fight, not when all of his thoughts are concentrated on his ship sailing back home for tomorrow morning. He cannot come back empty handed, but cannot bring himself to find that extravagance justified.

His seething rage burns inside him all through the afternoon, even after the sun begins to hang low in the sky. Yusuf paces the coast, bare feet sinking lines into the sand until the sea comes up to wash his path away. He really should go back to the market and find the jeweler and bring back something worthy of Nicolò, something that will be enough of an apology for the way Yusuf has treated him, but he knows that the jeweler will likely raise the price of anything he wishes to purchase.

The salty wind cools his face and he turns his eyes north, to the sea and to where, far to the north, lies Genoa. Maybe someday there will be a chance to visit Nicolò’s home, help him find his mother and sister if that is a choice he wishes to make. Yusuf will follow him through familiar streets and it will be Nicolò’s turn to have the upper hand—to make him a stranger—but Yusuf will gladly accept that fate just to be at his side.

The water rushes up over his ankles and the loneliness builds far higher than he can stand.

It is deep and unyielding, still bleeding like an open wound every moment that he does not have Nicolò. Yusuf wonders if the other man is as torn apart as he is, alone in their bed back in Mahdia. Wonders if Nicolò can feel the missing piece of his heart, can feel Yusuf’s beating alongside his.

As the sun begins to set, Yusuf begins the trek back to the city, arriving just as the _adhan_ is being delivered from the mosque. Salat gives him the same break of peace as it always does, allows Yusuf’s mind to go quiet for just a few moments. His forehead touches the prayer mat and can finally breath again.

He prays that he will never have to give this up. He has fought to keep his faith, through losing his father, though his ruinous relationship with Fatimah, though the fall of Jerusalem. If Nicolò asks, Yusuf will refuse. He would give him everything, give him all of himself, but Yusuf will not turn his back on Allah, not when Allah has blessed him with everything he could ever dream of.

Not when Yusuf has finally found a love that the poets have written about for centuries.

He will be the one to continue that legacy. He will bring the world to its knees someday, whether it be tomorrow or a thousand years from now, his voice raw with the weight of his love for Nicolò.

There is no more time for cowardice.

~~~

The trip back to Mahdia cannot come soon enough, and Yusuf finds himself wringing his hands raw to keep from tearing everything around him apart. His heart is beating double time the moment land is spotted and his legs feel week as he stands at the bow of the ship, watching his home creep closer and closer.

It is not a terrified nervousness, but one of joy.

Joy that he can put the waiting, the wishing, the wanting behind him and just have. Joy that the moment he returns home, he will be able to give his heart, his body, his soul to the man he has wanted for far too long. If loving Nicolò is wrong, he will gladly be wrong.

Even until the ends of the earth, he will chose Nicolò without another moment of hesitation.

They dock at the port and Yusuf oversees the unpacking of the ship until the sun grows heavy and swollen with bright golden light. He settles the debts and gives his thanks to the crew for the safe journey, his gifts for his family close to his side.

The walk back through the city is familiar and it goes quickly, neither Nicolò nor his sisters at his side to slow him down. His steps come quickly and intentionally, no time to stop or think, otherwise his nerve will diminish. All Yusuf can think of is coming home, not only to his house, but to his love as well.

The world drowns out around him the moment he smells jasmine.

It is familiar, as if a long forgotten dream, but the house is quiet as he enters, no sounds of his mother’s singing or his sisters’ laughter to be heard. Yusuf carefully places his gifts on a table and removes his worn boots, calling out, _“Mama? Noor? Zaafi?”_ There is no answer given and he wonders if they have gone to visit Jala and the children.

The tile floors are cool under his feet as he wanders through the house, listening for any sign of life. Even the upstairs is quiet and empty, Nicolò’s bed empty but used, sheets rumbled and bandages folded carefully on the desk. Yusuf’s hand smoothes over the mattress, a slight worry in his heart, until he hears quiet words float in through the window.

_“Beautiful… Heart… Welcome….”_

He looks out the window to the courtyard, but does not see the familiar figure of Nicolò hunched over beneath the olive tree—a common occurrence from their time here. Yusuf moves softly as he slips through the doorway and into the corridor, eyes on the open-air riad. His heart flutters when he sees Nicolò tucked away on a stool, hunched over a worn piece of parchment.

His feet cannot carry him down the stairs quickly enough.

The wind blows the sheer curtains through the wide archways and Yusuf’s heart beats slowly and gently in his chest as his feet make no sounds. He can hear the sweet lilt of Nicolò’s voice as the words come again. _“Beautiful… Heart… Welcome…”_ It carries across the air like a song as Yusuf watches him from the doorway, the setting sun bathing him in gold. Nicolò is wearing a pair of Yusuf’s pants and one of his robes, loosely tied around his waist and falling open at his broad shoulders.

He revels in that perfect moment, watching Nicolò’s bright, sea foam blue eyes tracing over the words of Arabic on the parchment in front of him, until he cannot bring himself to merely watch anymore. Yusuf’s voice is quiet as he hums, “I have told you before, your Arabic is quite good.”

Nicolò’s head snaps up and he stands so suddenly that he almost stumbles. His cheeks are pink with embarrassment over being caught and the parchment hangs at his side. “I—I did not hear you,” he says, eyes following his careful movements as Yusuf takes the first step out into the riad. “Your mother and sisters are with Jala and her family,” Nicolò says quickly, bare chest heaving in anxiousness. Yusuf takes another slow, careful step and the world tilts on one perfect axis.

“I love you, Nicolò,” he says, the words coming out so easily that Yusuf wonders why they were so hard to say at all. They spill as naturally as light from the sun, as if they were meant to be constant as the coming dawn. Nicolò freezes where he stands, mouth dropping open in a shocked breath. Yusuf takes another step and they are so close that he could reach out a single hand and touch the younger man. But the words come first. “I love you and I have been a coward to hide this from you.”

“Yusuf…”

“I love you for the man you are and the man you wish to be,” he says, unable to tear his eyes away from the glorious halo of bright, gilded fruit and dark green foliage that have crowned Nicolò’s struck face. “I have seen your heart, Nicolò, and you have seen mine. But what I could not let you see was the way you have taken it so wholly that I fear I cannot go on if you are not by my side. Not as my friend, not as my companion, but as the man I love. The man I fall asleep beside and the man I wake with my kisses.” Yusuf reaches hesitant fingers out and touches Nicolò’s fast-beating heart. “I love you, Nicolò; with every breath of life Allah has blessed me with, I love you.”

Their eyes meet and this dream is much more familiar. Much sharper in his mind. A sharp, helpless breath of relief. A smile that curls Nicolò’s imitable mouth as he finally hears the words that have been hanging there between them since Cairo.

Yusuf’s mouth opens once more to repeat those three inescapable words until the breath runs dry from his lungs, but he never finds the chance.

The parchment falls to the ground, forgotten.

Nicolò’s hands clasp the sides of his face, burning Yusuf’s skin like a red hot iron, and their mouths meet in a crushing kiss. They stumble back into the canopy of the lemon tree and, for a moment, all Yusuf can smell is the sharp, sour smell of the fruit and the warmth of Nicolò’s breath against his skin. One of his hands tangles in the soft hair at the nape of the younger man’s neck, the other coming to finally find its home at the base of Nicolò’s spine.

If it is only them, if it only _this_ , Yusuf will be satisfied.

He does not know how long they kiss. It could be a minute or it could be a millennia. Time does not matter, not now that he has Nicolò in his arms. But Yusuf’s head spins when the other man whispers into his mouth, _“I love you, Yusuf.”_ The Arabic flows from Nicolò’s tongue like a prayer and it is more glorious than any song he has ever heard. Tears bite at his closed eyes and the kiss grows harder, more insistent. _“I love you.”_

“I promise, I will no longer hide from you,” Yusuf pants as Nicolò’s back brushes the trunk of the lemon tree and they finally break from one another. “I do not wish to keep myself from you a moment longer. I want you and only you, from now until the earth crumbles beneath us.”

Nicolò’s eyes grow soft and his thumbs trace the line of Yusuf’s beard on his cheeks. “You have me, Yusuf. In all the ways I can give you, you have me.”

They do not bother with a bed the first time, when Yusuf lays Nicolò down and takes him apart to the very stardust in his soul. There will be time for second chances, to spend hours learning each other’s bodies, but this is what he needs—to see Nicolò’s blown-black pupils staring up at him in gasping awe in the pink light of the dying sun. To feel their bodies meet in the most perfect union he cannot put words to. To feel Nicolò’s strong thighs around his waist and to feel his body tremble as he spills into Yusuf’s hand.

To kiss him after Yusuf falls over the edge himself, stretching their clasped hands into the dirt above Nicolò’s head, the heavens as their only witness.

They catch their breath, sweat-slick foreheads pressed together. Yusuf strokes Nicolò’s damp hair back from his face and whispers, “I wanted to bring you back a gift from Carthage. I had found a pearl, big and beautiful as the moon, like the one you’d friend had given you when you were young.” His voice catches and Nicolò’s fingers brush over the bare skin of his hips, causing a shiver to rush up his spine. “But I could not justify the cost of it,” he apologizes. “Someday, I will make it up to you, my love.”

Nicolò’s face breaks into a soft, barely-there smile and he shakes his head, pushing up to meet Yusuf’s mouth once more. “I do not need your gifts, your trinkets, or any fine jewels. I only want _you_ , Yusuf.”

That night, sleep comes easily.

Comes as they kiss each other late into the night, past when every star in the sky has made its appearance. Comes as their legs twist together, Yusuf’s face tucked into the nape of Nicolò’s neck, his arms wrapped tight around the younger man. It comes in small breaths, in quiet, murmured, “I love you,”s in both Genoan and Arabic tongues—the music in the mundane. It comes in the quiet humming of a song in the back of Nicolò’s throat before he drifts off into the darkness of dreams.

Yusuf’s eyes flutter shut and he presses a single, final kiss to Nicolò’s soft skin.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was sufficient enough payoff for the rollercoaster I have carried this story on. The next chapter will be a shorter one, tying up lose ends and wrapping this story up!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every good story has an ending; Yusuf and Nicolò are still writing theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, y’all! Final chapter 😩

* * *

It comes in flashes through his dreams.

Two dark haired women, one pale like Nicolò, one with features from the Far East.

Smiles and bright, sharp laughter, hands fumbling for skin as he and Nicolò had done in the setting sun.

A bow and arrow, the sharp cut of a sword.

The familiar taste of blood in his mouth as one of the women falls from a blow to the throat, only to wake moments later.

A pair of blue eyes, so blinding like Nicolò’s, but unfamiliar and unyielding, staring back at him from what feels like a thousand miles away. The woman’s face tightens, twists, and suddenly a smirk appears on her lips.

Yusuf wakes with a sharp gasp, fumbling for Nicolò. The younger man is already upright in bed, chest is heaving and hands shaking, eyes wide and frightened as he asks, “Did you see them too?” Yusuf nods, trying to remember what the women’s faces looked like, what they had been wearing, where they might have been. “Yusuf, they were like us. I could feel it.”

“I know,” he stammers, swallowing back the lingering taste of blood from his tongue. “I know, Nico.”

“We have to find them.”

It is no longer a question, but a statement. One that they cannot deny must be done. If there are more people like them, blessed with eternal life, maybe they will finally find answers to the questions they seek. Maybe they will find the purpose to all of it.

Yusuf nods and fumbles for his hand. “Soon.”

~~~

“So that’s how it happened?” Nile asks, voice quiet in awe.

Joe nods gently and reaches for his glass of wine. “That’s our story. I wasn’t always the man you know, so quick to express how much Nicky means to me. It took almost losing him to realize I couldn’t live without him, and then it was all I thought about until I was able to finally find the words.”

Her face breaks into a soft smile. “You’ve really changed a lot, then. You’re, like, the most flowery poet I know.”

A short, barking laugh spills from his mouth and Joe takes a sip of his drink. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Nile.” He feels a warm hand on the back of his neck and tilts his head up to see Nicky’s bright, sea foam eyes staring down at him. Joe wraps his fingers around the younger man’s wrist and brings Nicky’s palm to his lips. “Hello, my love. Did you finish your book?”

Nicky hums in the back of his throat in affirmation and sits on the arm of the chair. “I did. What have you two been up to?”

“Joe was giving me the whole story of how you two met and fell in love,” Nile says, making Nicky raise an eyebrow at Joe. “It’s really sweet. But it’s kind of surprising that you didn’t get dreams of Andy and Quynh until after you got together. My first dream of all of you happened the first time I was asleep.”

Joe’s just about to open his mouth when he feels Nicky’s fingers squeeze his own. “I think we needed to find each other, find ourselves, before we could be ready to find the others,” Nicky says, quiet and introspective as always. “We’ve thought of a thousand different answers over the years but there are some questions that just don’t have answers. Only God knows.”

Nile nods understandingly and thinks for a moment. “How long were you two in Mahdia, then?”

“We stayed with my family for almost five years before setting out to try and find Andy and Quynh,” Joe says. “Any longer and we knew that the they would begin to suspect something, whether it was us not aging or some accidental injury like the one in the marketplace. It was a hard goodbye but I think my mother and sisters understood that I wasn’t meant to stay there forever.” Nicky’s thumb strokes over his knuckles and the wine begins to settle in his stomach. “We sent word a few years later that there had been a sailing accident—a fire on the boat—and that we had both perished in the flames.”

“We watched from afar for a few decades, making sure they were taken care of financially, until Joe’s mother passed,” Nicky says, standing up and stretching a little. “Come on, bed—both of you. It’s getting late.”

Joe downs the rest of the wine in his glass before setting it on the table. “Do you see how tight a leash he has on me, Nile?” he asks sardonically as she laughs, Nicky tugging at his hand.

“Could be worse leashes to be on,” Nile shoots back, making even Nicky chuckle, and forgoes sleep by pouring herself another glass of wine. She raises it to them as Nicky disappears through the door first. “Especially after nine hundred years.”

In the safety of their bedroom, Nicky’s fingers catch the front loops in Joe’s belt, crowding in close. “ _So_ ,” he hums in well-practiced Arabic. _“You decided to tell Nile our story?”_

 _“I did,”_ Joe murmurs back, wine-warmed hands slipping up the back of Nicky’s shirt. _“She asked.”_

“She saw the scars on my back when we were swimming yesterday. She waited until you had gone back out and asked me about them.” Nicky’s voice is quiet and there’s a bit of a far off look in his eyes when Joe meets his gaze. “I told her they were old, before I met you, and she didn’t ask any more questions. I think she went to you because you are much more talkative. Big mouth and all that.”

Joe growls playfully and nips at the sweet, perfect space below the younger man’s neck. “I thought you loved my big mouth.”

“I like what comes out of it almost as much as what goes in it,” Nicky says flatly, the faintest hint of a smirk on his face when Joe pulls back in surprise. His beautiful, perfect, blessed Nicolò, always there to fill him with wonder even after all these years. Nicky’s head tilts back toward the bed and his eyes are soft and hazy. “Do I need to ask you again?”

He shakes his head, bearing them back down on the mattress, his arms stretching Nicky’s hands above his head as Joe had done once almost a thousand years ago and over a thousand times since. His legs settle between Nicky’s warm, sturdy thighs and their lips meet in a languid kiss

Nile was right, he had changed—both of them had, really. Yusuf and Nicolò had become Joe and Nicky and their past lives had been woven away in the great tapestry of their lives. Two becoming one, and yet still, somehow, unfinished.

They will weave the final threads someday, but Joe knows that they will do it together.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO much on seeing this fic to the end with me! I loved writing it SO much and I am so happy at all the joy, sadness, and other emotions I was able to bring all of you! Thank you to everyone who commented and listened to me whine about it on various discord servers and just read from afar! You all hold a very dear place in my heart!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are very much appreciated! Thanks for reading!


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